Openings of Discworld novels as yet unwritten…
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: The increasingly inaccurately titled "occasional series of opening chapters/paragraphs for which I can't yet see a resolution". If anyone wants to run with them message me and I will gladly give them away. Now becoming a saga of the Howondalandian Jungle in which several exiles return Home and others learn about jungle survival.
1. Return to Genua

_**Openings of Discworld novels as yet unwritten…**_

_The first in an occasional series of openings for which I can't yet see a resolution. If anyone wants to run with them message me and I will gladly give them away._

Tiffany Aching followed the line of the river, glad that the journey was over and the impossibly white gleaming city was drawing nearer. Riverboats paddled on below her, and beyond the city she could see and smell the sea.

All she knew was that Granny Weatherwax had set her a test: to locate Mrs Erzulie Gogol and make herself known to the voodoo witch. Granny had also given her a letter to deliver.

Tiffany was aware that she could search the foetid swamps surrounding the city for months, and if the voodoo witch did not want to be found, she would remain elusive. But Nanny Ogg had whispered a lead into her ear, and with this in mind, she steered towards the chocolate-box castle that dominated the city, looking for a flat surface to land on and a chance to rest her aching back. And other parts chafed and bruised by three weeks of broomstick riding.

"Are we there yet, mistress?" a voice behind her inquired. She sighed. Daft Wullie had been asking that at roughly half-hourly intervals since they had left the Chalk.

"Crivvens, how many times do I have to tell ye? We're going further and longer than any Feegle have ever gone before, tae _Genua!_ It's no' like going down the rood tae the alchemist's!"

They'd insisted on escorting her. She was ferrying a honour guard of seventy Feegles, in the bristles and in two panniers, one either side, she suspected travelling more comfortably than she was among spare clothing and other luggage.

But… she sighed, and circled an upper patio of some sort among the high towers. It appeared to glitter, as if a constellation of stars had fallen, and was home to many upright rectangular and oval frames whose purpose was not immediately apparent to her. She landed he stick into dust and litter, her boot-soles grating on what she discovered to be broken glass.

"Somebody should tidy all this up." she mused, disapprovingly. "It looks like it's not been touched in _years_!"

Tiffany's first reaction on landing was relief that the journey was over, and a need to stretch and rub bruised and numbed parts. Otherwise she might have thought about the implications of what she'd just said.

"You stay here for now." she said, firmly, to her Feegles, who were tumbling off the stick and out of the panniers like a blue eruption. "I'll go down into this castle and see if I can find this Mrs Pleasant. Nanny said she lives in the kitchens. I won't be long."

After she had left, the Feegles held a conference.

"_The big wee hag said somebody should clear up around here. Ye cannae ignore the wishes of a hag!"_

"_Aye, weill. But there are all they broken mirrors and bits o'glass aboot the place. Can we dae it, Big Yin?"_

"_We did it with yon mirror-ball thingie the coachman was carryin,. We can do it here. 'Tis only a matter of scale! Besides, all yon broken glass lyin' around is dangerous, to my way of thinkin'. Lets's dae the wishes of the hag!"_

And the Feegle set to work, industriously sorting and matching and fixing….

Less than an hour later, they were looking at a cleared patio and a series of renewed mirrors.

Daft Wullie and Wee Jock shook hands.

"Looks neater the noo!" Wee Jock said, approvingly. The Feegle had discovered they could rebuild shattered and broken things, up to and including an entire pub, during a recent visit to ankh-Morpork. Some were even discovering a guilty pleasure in anti-vandalism.

"Have ye noticed, Big Yin, how all they mirrors seem tae make a regular shape?" Daft Wullie remarked. "All of them facin' inwards, aye, as if they're all focusing on a point.."

Big Angus tasted the air. There was a tinny sort of feel to the air, like the moment before a thunderstorm…

"There's hag-magic here!" he decided. "Maybe we should get the wee hag, aye, and the local hag he's come this far tae see… and what'ye daein' there, Wullie?"

Daft Wullie was carefully moving the position of a mirror, leaning hard until the rusty castors on its feet squeaked a few inches.

"This one's oot o'kilter wi'the rest" he said. "Just budge it along a wee bit.. _There!"_

"No!" screamed the little Gonnagle, realising. He'd been feeling uneasy about this for some time now. But he'd not said anything, reasoning that it kept his brothers out of trouble.

But it was too late.

There was a glittering swirl in the centre of the circle of renewed mirrors. It looked like glass and colour and pieces of a human body, reflected as they would be in broken shards of glass, swirling and moving until they came together as a recognisable human shape. The Feegle watched in numbed horror from seventy different hiding places.

And then the woman was standing there.

_Crivvens!_

_She looks aye like the Hag o'Hags in Lancre! _

Lilith de Tempscire stood, whole and renewed in the world, in the middle of a circle of mirrors.

"I chose correctly, it seems." she said to herself.

Then she laughed, exultantly.

"I am back. And it seems as if there is another witch in my castle. A sending from my sister."

She stomped off to the same door Tiffany had used an hour before.

At the doorway, she paused.

"I thank you, nac mac Feegle. I will return to…reward…you later."


	2. Contamination

_Here's another, a completely different opening chapter to another story as yet untold or unfinished. As before, it's open to anyone who might want to try and complete. Just PM me first. _

The pigeon launched itself off the balustrade of the Opera House, after having first ensured no gargoyles were within snapping distance. City pigeons had learnt the hard way about threats and predators, and the feral population was largely composed now of the savvier birds who were descended from parents who knew all about gargoyles and the occasional banshee.

This bird, however, was just about to discover how steep a learning curve could be. In fact, it would slide off the edge and into oblivion as it rose into the sky above the city. It barely had time to register something in the sky that moved very fast, faster than its experience knew, before darkness and crushing pain descended.

_{{pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop?}}_

POP.

Fleas communicate in an ultrafast series of popping noises, too fast and slight and high-pitched for humans to register. The cargo of fleas the pigeon had been carrying had also met their end, and were gathered, in as near a state as a siphonapteran can muster to shocked awe, in front of what looked like an empty carapaceous exoskeleton with a strange pattern on its shell.**(1)**

POP. The Death of Fleas confirmed again. _{{When your host was ingested and died, you did too.}}_

_{{pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop?}} ("Will we go to a land flowing with warm blood and, er, er…")_

POP. _{{Don't ask me. I'm only here to see you cross at the appointed time.}}_

_{{pop-pop-pop-pop-pop?}}_

The Death of Fleas obliged and told them what had killed them. The souls of the ex-fleas lost interest when they realised it had no skin they could easily pierce. Fleas are generally creatures with one-track minds.

As the souls of the dead insects faded, the Death of Fleas sank back into the psychic ether, feeling vaguely glad He didn't have to attend billions of siphonapteran mortalities personally. He normally partnered the Death of Rats, as whenever a rat dies, a cargo of fleas generally passed over too if they couldn't get to a new host quickly. But just now and again, he had to minister to fleas who had passed over in rat-free circumstances, ie in a choking cloud of fleapowder applied to the family cat, or halfway down a chimpanzee's digestive tract as the result of a mutual grooming session. This way of going, however, was a new one on him. Insofar as a flea can wonder, he wondered if he'd see more of it.

* * *

><p>Doctor Davinia Bellamy straightened her back and frowned.<p>

"What do you make of it, Professor Pennysmart?" she asked.

Unseen University's Professor of Extreme Horticulture looked down at the patch of growing weed and regarded the way it was spreading, in the lee of a suspiciously new-looking wooden fence.

"I'm almost sure of it, Doctor Bellamy. Just one more test…"

He beckoned the reluctant second wizard forward, the one whose escape route was blocked by two sturdy Bledlows. Davinia smiled up at him as kindly as she could manage. As the Assassins' Guild School's principal teacher of botany, she had been called out to identify a new and unknown plant species that was springing up around the City, and to assess any danger or threat it posed. She had taken one look and called for University assistance.

"Professor Rincewind," she said, "I asked for you to come with us today as I suspect you've seen this before. It might spare a lot of investigation if you can confirm the identification."

Rincewind swallowed. It was reminding him of recent things which he would have preferred to forget about. Mind you, this defined most of his life to date. And when Assassins take an interest in you, then that's bad news. Even when they were as superficially harmless-looking as Davinia Bellamy, who was blonde, plump, bespectacled and generally mumsy and who, rumour attested, alternated cold-bloodedly poisoning clients with being a devoted wife and mother to a husband and three sons. She didn't wear a sword or a stiletto. She didn't need to, although a wicked-looking pair of secateurs hung from her Assassin toolbelt. Again, rumour had it that she'd used them on an unlicenced Thief who'd sensed an easy mark, and who was now a former mugger and pickpocket learning a new trade that required far fewer fingers.

"I saw it on the Moon, miss" Rincewind said, reluctantly. "It's lunar weed, vegetation. We must have brought it back with us."

Davinia nodded. She turned to the householder.

"At about the time the spacecraft returned to Disc, it was, shall we say, informally scrapped by people wanting souvenirs of the flight. No, don't panic, I'm not with the Watch and that aspect doesn't concern me. Did you collect enough souvenirs to build your garden fence with? Yes, I thought you did. Mind if we take samples?"

While Davinia wore an Assassin belt with the usual multitude of pouches and pockets, only part of the contents were conventional for her trade. Many of the pouches had been turned over to seed packets, pollen samples, and basic gardening tools. While Davinia had achieved a basic pass grade in Swords, after long patient training, she had realised that if it came to a stand-up fight, there were tools she had used all her life that in her hands were potentially far more lethal. She carried a garden trowel where a cutting edge had been ground to razor-sharpness, and a seemingly inoffensive dibbler**(2)** had a point on it that rivalled any stiletto for punch. And of course, what she could do with a hoe or a garden rake in a fight had won her plaudits for inventiveness and style. She smiled. Joining the Guild had _really _rounded her out.

Taking out a razor-edged blade and a microscope slide, she began to meticulously scrape the wood of the fence, taking samples for examination later. If this was wood from the Kite, and it carried spores, the diagnosis, method of transmission, and identification, were absolutely proven. Then there was the problem of what to do about it… a non-native plant species with no known predator could take over and _really_ wreck the ecology. This had serious implications, and Vetinari was not going to be a happy Patrician when she and Pennysmart reported back.

_But maybe we at the Guild can devise a species-specific pesticide. We're Disc leaders in poisons, after all. _

* * *

><p>Lady Sybil Ramkin looked down at the new hatchlings with a mingled sense of joy and regret. The joy was because this was the closest she'd got to breeding back into the Errol line. Those long sleek bodies and flared nostrils….<p>

The regret was because of all the good dragons that had been lost in the recent Moon expedition. She'd given Havelock _hell _about that…he'd promised they'd be looked after and returned intact.

She looked down on the hatchlings again. They were the progeny of two of the very few dragons who had returned from the Kite, having house-hopped across the City from the crash-landing site, following a homing instinct to Ramkin Manor, coal and safety. She hoped others, who had made Discfall further away, would follow them. the pens were too bloody empty these days. Her rage had been mollified by Carrot and that da Quirm fellow briefing her on the existence of Moon Dragons, with that jolly clever bald chap Leonard presenting her with a portfolio of sketches and paintings of the Lunar Dragon, together with his observational notes, as part-compensation for her loss. Havelock had smoothly said that she was the _ideal_ person to collate and work up Leonard's notes for publication, and some of the wind had gone out of her sails then. No doubt as Havelock had intended…

She wondered if the lunar trip had somehow _affected_ her dragons. Had cross-mating happened up there, or had the lunar atmosphere provoked metamorphic change in a notably malleable species that was continually reinventing itself? There was a facet here that she hadn't yet considered, she knew that. Her mind worked furiously. According to Carrot, some of the lunar dragons had returned to Disc with them, although none had as yet made their way into her possession. _Damn pity they didn't capture a couple of mating pairs for me,_ she thought, full of the passion for dragons. _But would it be cruel to bring them back to Disc, away from their natural habitat, where from what Carrot tells me, gravity is heavier and makes things weigh more? And what do they eat up there? _

"OUCH!"

Her train of thought derailed, she looked up to see Sam had picked up a hatchling and had attempted to use it to light his cigar.

Unsuccessfully, as it turned out.

"It flamed from the wrong end!" Sam complained, flapping his hand. "Burnt my fingers!"

"You _know_ I disapprove of that sort of thing, Sam" Sybil said, sternly. "I told you you'd come a cropper one day!"

Then they looked at each other.

"Flaming from the _wrong end_…" she repeated.

"They're bloody Errols!" Sam exclaimed. "Sybil, you've got _Errols!"_

Sam and Sybil hugged, excitedly.

* * *

><p><strong>(1)<strong> A very tiny scythe and an hourglass.

**(2) **Not the entrepreneur. A dibbler is_a pointed gardening implement used to make holes in soil, especially for planting bulbs or seedlings._ In the French translations, Dibbler is _M. Planteur_, using the French word for the same tool. Mind you, it's also an endangered species of small rat-like marsupial in Western Australia. Bet you didn't know that.


	3. Snuffing out an ember

_**The last embers….**_

_A bit of a drabble set in the immediate aftermath of __**Snuff. **__This is going to be another of those unfinished tales – I can see this scene so clearly that it has to be written. I can see where it goes. I can't see how it finishes. Re-written several times so it it fits the necessary canon and fanon continuities. Especially so it sits in with my concept of Howondaland, in which an uneasy peace exists between Rimwards Howondaland (not quite South Africa, as it used to be) Kwa'Zululand, the powerful independent black state that on our world the Zulu Empire might have evolved into had it remained independent) and Matabelelland (a metaphor for all that is worst , corrupt and most venal in Black Africa - a reminder that not just the White South Africans were culpable of bad behaviour. Think corrupt officials at all levels, bribery, venality, and Nigeria's particular problem with the Code 419 scam.) _

Lord Vetinari studied the guests he had invited to a very discreet and potentially deniable meeting in the Oblong Office. Commander Vimes, Lord Downey, several foreign ambassadors, and a group of select individuals who had a growing reputation as _fixers, doers,_ and _arrangers. _

"Minute this meeting selectively, please, Drumknott." Vetinari commanded. "There must be a record that a meeting happened, and a decision with international implications was arrived at between myself and five ambassadors, three of whom represent neighbouring countries in Howondaland. Concerning a certain situation which has so far caused a great deal of embarrassment to all of our nations."

"And the principal architect of the embarrassment has been allowed to walk free by Ankh-Morpork and he may have returned to Howondaland." The Matabelelandian Ambassador, who was new to his post, spoke frankly. "For which we thank you."

"_Exiled!" _growled Sam Vimes, who still rankled that the Number One Suspect had been too politically hot to arrest and slam in the Tanty for multiple crimes. "Not _freed_!"

Vetinari sighed.

"I assure you, Mr Ambassador, my hands were tied and my options were limited. After His Grace reported to me there was a major criminal situation involving Ankh-Morporkian nationals who were very careful to observe the law within this city and its environs whilst committing the bulk of their crimes overseas. So keen was the perpetrator to commit no crime on this continent that he suborned the Magistrates of the Shires, and got them to rewrite the law so that an atrocity necessary for his scheme did not count as a crime. Obviously, once the crime was uncovered it had to be dealt with. But, just perhaps, we might all have been happier had the Duke not been quite so assiduous in his police-work."

"Except for the goblins…" Vimes muttered. Other people in the room, aware of his reputation, turned to look at him.

"Indeed, Sir Samuel. And therein lies the difficulty." Said Vetinari. "I think we are all agreed that in future there will be no repetition. Now it is clearly, consensually, agreed that the goblin race is included in the continuum of sentient species who co-exist on our Discworld, and all right-minded governments are rushing to confirm that their statute and common law recognises this. That is your achievement, Sir Samuel, that the killing of a goblin is now to be thought of as _murder_ and not as _vermin-disposal_. But as I also made clear at the time, the due process of law means that a law applied _today _cannot be used to arrest the perpetrator of an action committed _yesterday,_ when no such law applied and his actions were legal. However much of an affront they might have been to ethics or morality or common decency."

"So your reply to the Diamond King is "no?"

The voice was a gravelly rumble. It evoked the first stones rumbling down a mountainside that will become an avalanche, with consequent detrimental effect on anyone standing underneath. Vetinari looked upwards to the speaker.

"As is my reply to the Low King, who has taken it on himself to offer right of asylum to another underground-dwelling species with whom the Dwarfs have always shared a common history." he said. "I am sorry, Prince Corundum, if this is not the answer the Diamond King wishes to hear."

Corundum, the Ambassador of the Diamond Kingdom of the Trolls, a troll who stood only one step down from the Diamond King himself, nodded acknowledgment and remained impassive.

Low King Rhys's Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork, Grim Grimssgrandsson, looked up into the polished stony face, then at Vetinari's smooth polished mask, and said nothing. The Low King was as keen as his Troll opposite to see justice done to a human who had brought death underground, and had made a similar carefully phrased diplomatic request to the Patrician.

"Besides, I cannot extradite the man to face trial by _anyone _as, regrettably, he has chosen the fugitive's route."

Vimes adopted his policeman face. He knew the two real reasons why Gravid Rust had fled the city in a hurry. Vetinari had pointed out that any attempt to arrest the son of a leading nobleman for crimes committed outside his jurisdiction would lead to _all_ the leading noble families closing ranks against him. Vetinari had not been sure if his grasp of the Patricianate would survive that. In fact, it would go against the very careful way in which he had sought to divide any potential opposition and keep it divided. The last thing he wanted to do was to offer his noble rivals a common reason to unite against him.

Consequently, and in order to publicly show clemency and sensitivity to the wishes of the old Lord Rust, now a harmless invalid, Gravid Rust had been visited by night by Dark Clerks and an offer had been made: he had twenty-four hours to leave the city to a destination of his own choice. Therefore there was no longer a _corpus_ to _habeaus_ in the direction of either Diamond King nor Low King. Vetinari could therefore refuse both and be seen as favouring neither.

But this was now developing into a major international situation. All due to Vimes' diligent police work in the Shires, the debateable territory between Ankh-Morpork and Quirm.

And it had a dimension that stretched a _long _way outside the Central Continent: three of the summoned Ambassadors were human. They were from Howondaland. And to an Ambassador, they were worried men. Primarily, they were worried about what their respective Governments would say when the grim reality of Gravid Rust's slave plantations got back to them. A future where the displeasure of Ankh-Morpork might be expressed as less preferential rates on loans, loss of Most Favoured Trading Nation status, with a return to import controls and restrictions, and re-introduction of certain taxes.

Most crucially for two Ambassadors, Vetinari had genially expressed awareness of the existance of certain numbered acounts at the Royal Bank and that he knew exactly which Paramount Kings and Princes had established them and kept them topped up, just in case they ever had to leave Howondaland in a hurry. Although he, Vetinari, was _quite sure_ none of the money had been diverted from overseas aid and development donations from richer nations, and that the rumours of charitable aid money being skimmed by highly placed government officials when it arrived in the continent were just scurrilous and base slanders. And how is your other brother, the Paramount Prince, settling into his new job as Finance Minister, by the way? Capital, pleased to hear it!

The third Ambassador, the representative of White Howondaland, was also aware his country was accepted on sufferance by Ankh-Morpork. Granted his people were the descendants of white settlers from the Central Continent, and the powerful city had a kinship with them on a par with that it acknowledged towards Fourecks, the Foggy Islands and Aceria. But Vetinari had remarked that the other three ex-colonies also had their own populations of non-white natives, who these days were happily treated as free and equal citizens. Rimwards Howondland was unique in its social system of _apartheid, _the deliberate and legally sanctioned system of racial seperation between whites and blacks. Some things may be overlooked for the present so long as we have you as an ally to counterbalance Klatchian sponsorship of your neighbouring states. But tomorrow, who knows?

No, each of the three was hoping against hope that wherever in Howondaland Rust had established his slave farms, it was in the sovereign territory of _one of the others._ And therefore not only not his problem, but something to use as a propaganda weapon in ongoing mutual mistrust and hostility.

Pieter van der Graaf, of Rimwards Howondaland, tentatively broke the silence.

"End your people are not eble to identify wherebouts in Howondaland the slave farms are, my Lord?" he asked.

Vetinari shook his head.

"Investigations proceed". he said. "I understand that Mr Wee Mad Arthur used a form of transportation known only to the race of the Nac Mac Feegle which enabled him to arrive there virtually instantaneously. A remarkable magical skill, but even allowing for that, the Feegle are not a race noted for their grasp of political geography. All he was able to ascertain was that the _latifundia_ he visited was situated on a belt of cleared land between the jungle forest and a nearby coast. Which could, of course, be any one of your three nations. Here he found a group of living goblins and a small detail of villainous overseers. He did not think to capture one to return to this city for detailed interrogation. In any case, the aerial mount he was riding could not have taken the weight."

"You should worry _most_, Pieter." said the Matebele ambassador. "I hear the Rust family bought a holiday home in your country because they appreciated the pleasant warm climate and your nation's, ah, _robust_ attitude towards its servant classes. As like calls to like, could it be that Gravid Rust made friends with a Boor farmer who was prepared to take apartheid that logical one step further?"

Pieter van der Graaf shifted in his seat and a slight red flush suffused his neck.

"Or else, Benjamin, he might have struck up a deal with a Paramount Prince who egreed to _facilitate_ his need for lend, end who egreed to esk no questions in return for a percentage of the profits? Efter ell, your nation's main export trade eppears to be those spurious clecks messages seeking to separate the greedy from their cash? The _Code 419_'s?"

Vimes grinned, appreciatively. Code 419's were beginning to be a _nuisance_ in the city. Somebody who understood the Ankh-Morporkian mentality had learnt to exploit the tendency of its citizens to seek something for nothing and had come up with a quite brilliant scam worthy of Moist von Lipwig. Randomly selected citizens received a clacks mesage out of the blue purporting to be from a highly placed citizen in Matabeleland who was seeking a friend of honour and integrity to help illegally export a lot of cash out of Howondaland. _Of course, your name was mentioned as that man of integrity and honour. All I require to facilitate the passage of a million dollars out of Howondaland are the details of a bank account, perhaps yours, into which I can transfer this money, in return for which ten per cent will be yours... V_imes had seen the little flaw in this argument straight away, which was more than could be said for many citizens who had awoken the next day to discover an empty bank account. With the help of Moist von Lipwig, arrests had been made of previously penniless Matabelelandians who were suddenly flashing the cash as if there were no tomorrow.

Vetinari remained ominously silent. As the squabble between the ambassadors ended, he said

"Investigations, however, proceed. I am pleased nobody has placed a protest with me concerning violation of their nation's airspace and incursions on its territorial integrity by agents of Ankh-Morpork. Although such a protest would have _definitely_ established in whose territory the slave farms were established.

Constable Arthur of the City Watch has now facilitated the transition of medical teams who are in Howondaland for purely humanitarian reasons. I trust nobody will object to that? I have, of course, also despatched a small squad of Watchmen to ensure the local security of the locations in question and detain any former guards for interrogation. Which I believe is sanctioned under agreed international policing convention? My team includes Inspector Pessimal and Professor Stibbons from Unseen University, who will be surveying and making observations that will define the exact location of the slave-farm."

Vimes looked round the faces of the three Howondalandian ambassadors, two black and one white.

_Who's worried? Damn it, they all are. They're all hoping like hell it's not them. And they've heard about Pessimal's talent for cracking difficult cases. And Stibbons' ability to rise to a scientific challenge. And he's got another bloody good reason to want to go to Howondaland on personal business... _

The thought led Vimes to look to the other group of people present in the room, who so far had remained impassively silent. A nasty little suspicion was forming about why Lord Downey and a small, elite, group of career Assassins were present.

"We can, I think, discuss any implications later, after we discover from whose sovereign territory Rust was operating. We do not even know the _nation_ yet, let alone whether there was active collusion from its government or government representatives. Judging by the reactions of you three gentlemen, this came as a nasty surprise to all of you."

Vetinari paused, letting the implications sink in.

"I have assured the older Lord Rust that his son will be free from legal retribution were he to accept exile from this city. I wish to spare him any further anguish. After all, he has been forced to disinherit his son, and the Rust line must now proceed through his daughters. Unless Gravid fathers a son who can be accepted back into the family, this is the end of the Rust line. He has four daughters. I understand Lady Regina now inherits." He paused for a moment, and added

"Capable though she is, she is of an age not to have been able to study at the Assassins' Guild School. The Quirm Academy for Young Ladies did its usual thorough job in educating her, but I do not think it taught the, er, additional skills her younger sister Lucinda, now the next in line, learnt at the Assassins' School. now the Rust line of ascencion is open, Lucinda's especial characteristics of drive, ambition, and ruthlessness may come to the fore."

Vetinari quietly noted the shudders of at least one Assassin present, who would have sought to educate Lucinda Rust. It took a lot to make Assassins blanch. Teaching a Rust for seven years would do it.

"And she has knowledge of Howondaland, my lord." said Lord Downey. "She was set the task of finding her way home from there, as an alternative method of graduating from the School. It took her a year."**(1)**

Vimes pondered. A vicious little cow like Lucinda would have passed through the Howondalandian jungle. Did Gravid, an indolent, lazy, bully, get the idea from her? _Was there more than one Rust involved_?

"Which is where you come in." Vetinari said. "I am proposing an alternative strategy which can be discussed here, discreetly, without the older Lord Rust being aware. He has been given no more than a year to live, after all, and I would like his passing to be tranquil with no further disappointments or indignities being loaded onto him."

Vetinari paused, as if marking the passing of another former enemy who could now be treated with courtesy and generosity, as his days of being a threat had passed.

"I will be frank with you all. A factor in my deliberations over this case has been the sure and certain knowledge that if I openly move against one noble house and hang the son, however well-deserved a death sentence is, then _all_ noble houses in this city will perceive a threat to their privileges and unite against me. This would jeopardise all I, and Sir Samuel, have striven to bring about in this city, and represent a return to feudal law that serves nobody's interests and would destabilise the wider world.

"The old families indicated they would accept exile. So a legal sentence of exile was passed and Gravid Rust has left the city. Although Fourecks remains a possibility, that country is developing very effective law enforcement systems, and its High Commissioner repeatedly complains to me about Ankh-Morpork's tendency to use it as a dumping-ground for its criminals."

Vetinari sighed.

"Even though the white population of Fourecks largely descends from unwanted elements transported there by previous Patricians over several hundred years, the modern Fourecksians do not like to be reminded of this. **(2)**So if Gravid is not allowed entry to that nation, the alternative is Howondaland, where the family has holdings in more than one nation."

The Patrician steepled his fingers.

"This has been an unsatisfactory compromise. It has directly led to today's worsening of relations with both the Diamond king and the Low King. I regret that."

"Low King Rhys appreciates your difficulties" the Dwarf Ambassador said, sympathetically. "He asked me to confirm he still holds you in the highest regard personally."

Vetinari nodded acknowledgement and steepled his fingers.

"Having sought to satisfy the law, may I now move towards satisfying justice?" Vetinari asked. "Lord Downey, I note that the people you have chosen are uniquely suited for a task I am going to call on you to complete."

Downey smiled.

"I anticipated the nature of your request, my lord. I propose that my operatives start for Fourecks and Howondaland with minimal delay, and begin the search for The Honourable Gravid. We are also aware that Lady Lucinda has also left the Central Continent in something of a hurry. She may have anticipated a response like this, and may well be seeking to bodyguard her brother. When we know which direction she has travelled in, and reminded her about her Assassin's honour, we will have a better picture of where to focus our responses."

"So only your very best Assassins, then." Vetinari said. "But I note the successes Miss Smith-Rhodes and Miss N'Kweze have had, working together as a team. There would be bars to their working together in Howondaland, no doubt?"

"Miss N'Kweze would not get en entry visa into Rimwards Howondaland." said Pieter van der Graaf. "I can see no circumstances _et ell._ And to enter our country under eny other guise means no mercy if she is caught."

He stared out Miss Ruth N'Kweze, an Assasin of Zulu nationality, who stared levelly back. She had once successfully infiltrated the Embassy on a Guild assignment.**(3)** Pieter van der Graaf had never forgotten.

Her uncle, the Kwa'Zulu Ambassador, found it necessary to speak.

"My brother, the Paramount King, has issued an edict that names Miss Smith-Rhodes for the murder of our brother.**(4)** He has decreed that should she ever enter Kwa'Zululand, her life will be forfeit. Although he is merciful and will grant her a warrior's death."

Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who had once _inhumed with extreme prejudice _in Kwa'Zululand, returned the look.

"Sir, if I ever have cause to enter your nation, It will be with a full _kommando_ et my beck!" she said, proudly. "I em still an officer of the netional ermy end subject to recall! I wish your brother luck in detaining me. I hope he will consider it worth the _cesuaelties_. "

"So the team is temporarily broken up, then" Lord Downey said, regretfully.

"Insurmountable difficulties appear to apply." Vetinari agreed.

"But in principle we can infiltrate at least four Howondalandian-born Assassins into the continent with instructions to locate Gravid Rust and not only remove an embarrassment, but ensure justice is adequately done. Is this a course of action the Low King and Diamond King of the Trolls would accept as testimony of our good intentions? We can also allow the Assassins full licence to stamp out any other slave farms they may discover and let it be known by their actions that Ankh Morpork views such institutions with _extreme prejudice."_

"Even if Gravid Rust is not there, my people will still be able to perfom a service for which they are fully trained and able." Downey agreed. "And I understand Miss O'Hagan and Mr Nolan will be working with an operative based at the Embassy in Bugarup."

"No worries, your Lordship!" Darleen O'Hagan said, grinning. This was her first big mission after graduating as an Assassin, and the icing on the cake was that it involved an expenses-paid trip home to Fourecks.

"Oh yes." Vetinari agreed, as if remembering something. "Arachne. I recall she begged me for a posting to a location with exotic wildlife. Having read her school reports from the Guild, I recognised a young lady of exceptional, if specialised, interests, and was able to accomodate her."

"Erechne Webber." Johanna said, suddenly the teacher who had _written_ some of those glowing reports. "I offered her the position of Curator of Erechnids et the Zoo. She was a brilliant pupil, my lord."

Johanna taught zoology and natural science, the Assassin way. Students under her guidance cultivated and maintained an impressive array of poisonous spiders, insects, scorpions, lizards and other interesting fauna. Arachne Webber had been a particularly talented student with a passion for spiders. Johnna had noted, without rancour and with some pride, that her student's knowledge of spiders had very soon outstripped her own. For a teacher, this makes it all worthwhile. Posting her to a country which had even more species of poisonous spiders and insects than her own native Rimwards Howondaland was, to Johanna, logical and rewarding, especially since regular crates arrived at the Guild containing live animal specimens to supplement its collection. The Post Office was not greatly happy about this, but Johanna had pointed out the Royal Mail prided itself on its ability to deliver anything anywhere despite all the obstacles that could be thrown at it.

"Indeed. And if a visitor to Fourecks who was, alas, _ill-informed_ concerning the lethality of the native fauna were to find a funnel-web spider under the toilet seat, perchance, it would be a sad accident that could not in any way be blamed upon the Guild of Assassins."

"And any payment to Arachne afterwards would be simply a normal bonus to an able diplomat." Downey agreed. "With, of course, a corresponding _introduction fee_ to the Guild as acknowledgement of our having trained her for Government service."

Another Assassin spoke up.

"Any of us can _inhume_. It takes an expert to arrange a convincing accident, my lord."

"Indeed, Canon, Indeed."

The Reverend Clement N'Effabl, Zulu-born, was a qualifed Assassin and a priest of Blind Io. He was Assassins' Guild Chaplain. He was also high in the counsel of High Priest Ridcully. It was suspected that occassionally, he had administered the Last Rites on behalf of his church.

"So we are agreed, then. Miss O'Hagan and Mr Nolan travel to Fourecks. Howondaland poses certain operational problems, but I will temporarily give Miss Smith-Rhodes and Miss van Kruger diplomatic accreditation pointing out they are acting directly and expressly as my agents, and I would take it amiss if they were unduly detained in Black Howondaland."

Vetinari nodded at both black Ambassadors, who very reluctantly accepted a diplomat cannot be normally arrested or detained and is outside the law of the host nation.

I accept that Canon N'Effabl and Miss N'Kweze are unable to enter Rimwards Howondaland, as its government is inflexible on the issue of Assassins with Zulu nationality crossing its borders. In any case, the, er, _racial classification laws_ would make it impossible for them to operate freely in that nation.

"Both parties will be transported to their destinations by Constable Arthur, who has been _crow-stepping_ quite a lot over the past few days."

"I beleive the Feegle term is _craw-stepping_, my lord" Drumknott said, diffidently.

"Indeed, Drumknott. The Howondalandian teams will travel with a relief Watch detail to the central base we have established, and then split up to their respective destinations. Ladies and gentlemen, you have twelve hours to organise yourselves and pack for the trip. Good luck and good hunting!"

Johanna and Heidi van Kruger grinned at each other. They were going _home_. And without a five-week voyage.

_And Ponder's already over there, J_ohanna thought_. I wonder if I can make time to introduce him to my parents? _

Vimes grinned to himself.

"While you're over there, ladies, if you can arrest the Marquis of Fantailer and bring him back? Especially you, Johanna, you're one of my Specials!"

She smiled. "Give me a description. If I see him, he's yours!"

* * *

><p><strong>(1) <strong>See my story _**The Graduation Class**_, in which Lucinda Rust's Final Run becomes a marathon.

**(2)** I have established a mechanism for this in other stories: a nasty and wily Patrician reasoned that if things could get _into_ the mysterious continent of XXXX but were unable to get _out_ again, it made it the perfect prison. therefore barely seaworthy hulks were loaded with prisoners, towed to the safe limit outside XXXX, and given a little push that drew them in... if they survived the anticyclone, they were prisoners for life.

**(3) **See my story _**Murder Most 'Orrible **_in which a student Assassin called ruth N'Kweze perfroms a necessary deception.

**(4) **See my story _**The Graduation Class**_, in which the back-story of a much younger Johanna is described.


	4. Snuffing Out c2 Carry On Up The Jungle

_**Kind of picking up from the previous chapter... I've had ideas, but maybe not enough to finish a story on. **_

Ponder Stibbons removed his glasses for the umpteenth time and dried behind the top of his ears, where sweat was slicking and causing the specs to slide down his nose. He then mopped his forehead and as an afterthought dried the arms of his specs. He'd been warned Howondaland was hot. But never in his wildest dreams had he believed it was going to be _this_ hot. After two days here, he just hoped he'd acclimatise to it soon. Nobody else seemed to be having problems.

On urgent advice from Professor van der Post, who was from the heat of Rimwards Howondaland, he was wearing the most lightweight clothes he could possibly find. This amounted to shorts, a khaki bush-shirt with short sleeves, and a bush-hat of the sort favoured by people who lived and worked in places like this. The only thing identifying him as a wizard, in fact, was his Unseen University alumni octogram, which he had pinned in the hat-band. Any sort of conventional wizard's robe, out here, was tantamount to instant heat-stroke; he'd left his usual robe in the tent. What had Johanna said? Oh yes. This jungle belt got an annual monsoon season where the rain came down and the temperature dropped by quite a few degrees. He recalled her talking about her homeland. He clearly remembered her saying that the default condition of the jungle, outside monsoon, was to be hot and humid and there was no getting around that. He suspected he might see her here soon, as she'd be an ideal person for the Patrician to send out on this mission. In the meantime… as one of a dozen or so people sent out in conditions of great secrecy a night or two before, he hadn't had a chance to communicate with her. At least Laurens van der Post, who was advising the mission from back in the city, had insisted on light thin clothing.

Ponder looked over the table into the intent face and fussy moustache of Inspector Pessimal, who was wearing what he described as Watch Tropical Uniform: minimal armour, no chain mail, a lightweight cap, over shorts and bush-shirt carrying his rank at the shoulder. Ponder felt like a sweat-soaked rag; A.E. looked dapper and neatly pressed, as if he was born to this sort of posting. Ponder recalled that in the old days, men from the Ankh-Morpork Civil Service and Guild of Clerks had been sent out to administer the colonies and bring order to the natives. He inwardly speculated that A.E. Pessimal had been born way out of time, by about three centuries, and would have made an outstanding District Commissioner in Empire days.

An excited chattering arose from elsewhere in the encampment.

_And as for the colonised…_

Doctor Lawn, who had been here for a few days, was on his medical rounds. It had been agreed that the goblins, the liberated slaves, should be treated in situ for now while decisions were made as to their eventual dispersal. Careful and diligent medical work had prevented too many further fatalities - although the pile of ill-buried bones they had found on the edge of camp told their own stories. Goblins seemed to heal fast with care and attention, and they were fast making a home out of their former prison. A stockade, guarded by the Watch detail currently posted here, housed the sullen and morose individuals who had been the guards and slave overseers. It was too hot here for troll officers, but the dwarf and human officers all had a set "_just please, try it on with us, just once!"_ attitude. The prisoners were therefore docile. Again it had been agreed not to send them back via the Feegle Portal; a ship was on its way from Ankh-Morpork bringing bulk supplies and equipment. It would return with a brig full of prisoners to stand trial, and perhaps the first of the liberated Goblins who wanted to give their former home another try.

And the tobacco fields, which stretched out to a thousand yards in all directions, were quickly going to weed and ruin. They were held to be least important of all. The goblins who had previously been the slave-workers could be heard, occasionally, but were generally not seen. The illest and sickest were still being tended in the makeshift field hospital by Doctor Lawn and the volunteer helpers who'd come out from the city, supported by the more able of the goblin women. The rest had created runs and tunnels for themselves in the long grass. There had been a couple of fatalities at first from the native fauna, but goblins looking for small mammals for the pot had quickly assimilated to Howondaland. Snake was now a delicacy, when they could be found. It appeared to have been communicated around the local serpent _groundnutplant_ **(1)** that the new bipedal life form was worse news than mongeese or meerkats. And locally available materials were being scavenged to make unggue pots, the continual labour of the goblin race.

"There's no doubt about it, Professor" Pessimal said, breaking the silence. He waved a hand, indicating the array of sextants, theodolites, phase-of-the-moon recorders, thaumometers and other miscellaneous equipment.

"We've been taking readings and measurements for two days now. We can fairly definitively state we are perhaps thirty solar minutes turnwise of the Dimwell Meridian **(2)**. Sextant readings indicate that we are on latitude one hundred and fifty-one degrees and thirty-two minutes Rimwards. I have done some preliminary work in matching this information to the best available political maps…."

There was a noise in the air behind Stibbons, and Pessimal broke off. Ponder knew the sound well: it meant a new arrival was on the way from Ankh-Morpork and this was the magical _thlabber _venting off. It also had an overtone of beating wings and a horse neighing.

"New arrivals!" said Pessimal, briskly. He stood to welcome them. Ponder turned his head. He no longer jumped at any noise behind him, indicating a discharge of magic, if it was not accompanied by screams and explosions. The total absence of explosions and screams meant he could be blasé - the experience of working at the High Energy Magic building and dealing with the Faculty had taught him a lot about Applied Magic over the years.

He smiled. The two Pegasii, literally the workhorses of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch Air Police, had come into land in the middle of the camp, on the close-cut area of grassland that had been insisted upon as a landing field. Each carried two riders, a pilot and a pillion, with large panniers slung across their flanks behind the broad, graceful, wings. Smaller panniers, more like side-pouches, were slung in front of the wing-roots.

Each also had an escorting bird: Ponder recognised one as a Bald Combovvered Eagle and the other as, well, another sort of eagle, albeit a sleepy-looking one.

"We've brought yer gurrrlies!" said a voice that was both small and not for indoors. It carried, in power and strength. "Aye, and the bits and pieces yon Assassin gurrlies wanted to bring!"

The pilots and pillion passengers deftly dismounted, as the two pegasii began placidly to pick at the jungle grasses. They unstrapped and unshipped the panniers and placed them to one side. Then all four began stripping off the gloves and layers of clothing that had been vitally necessary at altitude, but which at ground level in Howondaland would be swelteringly uncomfortable.

Ponder placidly waited, looking beyond the group to the blue of the sea beyond. The slavers had built an ad-hoc pier to facilitate loading ships with bales of tobacco. People from the Builders and Artificers' guilds were going to come out and make safe. He suspected the jungle trees cleared in order to open fields for growing tobacco had ended up as pier supports. It was still bloody rickety, though. He'd walked its length once and felt it wobble underfoot.

He watched the four newcomers have a brief conference and, in two cases, an exultant hug. They each spoke a phrase that was practically identical in meaning- **(4) **while one of the non-hugees stood back with arms folded and said "Bloody hot, though!"

The red-haired hugger shook her head and said, without rancour, "Jislaik. You're Zlobenian. You just do not _understand_!" But she was looking at Ponder. She smiled.

"Hello, Ponder. How are you finding my Howondaland?" she said. "Although this may not be the Gods' Own Country…"

Johanna Smith-Rhodes was in a variant of her usual bush fatigues and floppy bush hat. Although here, it was absolutely fitting and right. The only difference is that this was in a chopped camouflage pattern of splintered greens and blacks. Even her backpack was in camouflage colours. Ponder was no expert, but he suspected it was standard Howondalandian Army jungle issue. The other Assassin who had arrived with her was, for the moment, in conventional Assassin black, with her oval shield and assegai slung at her back.

"Whet date is it, Ponder?" Johanna asked. Ponder told her. She whistled. "I thought so. My inner senses told me not long hes elapsed since we left Enkh-Morpork. The very same day? The lest time I came home, it took four weeks on the fastest boat!"

She looked up, and then conferred with the black-skinned Assassin.

"Almost noon here, Johanna." said the black girl. "The sun is almost directly overhead. But it was seven in the morning when we left the city."

"_Ja._" Johanna said, thoughtfully. "But the sun hes yet to travel ecross the Disc so es to be overhead in Enkh-Morpork. Thet will take… "

"Five and a half hours." Inspector Pessimal said, helpfully. "But if we make a simple mathematical calculation involving the relative movement of the Disc and its sun against sidereal time measured against an astral fixed point, we can deduct local time here from local time in the city, and make a minor adjustment. We can therefore deduce that your total travelling time, all things taken into account, was twenty-three and a half minutes."- **(4+1)**

Johanna frowned, then grasped the essential point, and grinned. "End normally, it is four to five weeks by sea…"

"I must make friends with the Feegle." Ruth N'Kweze decided. Ponder watched her move. Here, in her own continent, she moved with sleek lissom grace. _And Johanna belongs here, too. This is also her country. _

"So where may we put our kit?" Ruth asked, politely.

"Mine goes wherever Ponder is." Johanna said, decisively.

"I promise to be very inobtrusive, then," Pessimal said, politely. Johanna looked at him.

"I was sharing a hut with the Professor." he explained. "Because of the, er, prior management here, there aren't nearly enough huts for all of us… because she is at present the only woman here, Constable Jolson has a hut to herself. You might perhaps want to think of, er?"

Ruth smiled, kindly. She patted Pessimal on the shoulder.

"What a kind suggestion, Inspector. I know Constable Jolson is, like me, black of skin. If this turns out to be Rimwards Howondaland, it may be best if we blacks segregate ourselves."

"Ponder, we will sleep under the stars tonight." Johanna decided, smiling a wry smile.

"We _will_?" he asked. He'd seen the sort of wildlife that scuttled, crawled and slithered in the grass. Some of it had even contrived to get inside his mosquito net.

Johanna smiled, beatifically.

"Our first night together in my Howondaland!" she said. "It will be _romantic_!"

Ponder smiled, weakly. He held the smile while the two Assassins went to drop their gear off in what was now the female personnel's hut.

Witch Police Constable Olga Romanoff smiled sympathetically at Ponder, and remarked that she'd be sleeping in her own bed in the city later that day.

"But if I hear you correctly, sir, when we return to the City, it will still only be about ten o'clock in the morning there?"

Pessimal nodded. "Twenty-three and a half minutes to get here. Twenty-three and a half minutes to get back. Perhaps an hour here in between. These are the despatches for Lord Vetinari and Mr Vimes, by the way."

He handed over two sealed envelopes. She secured them in a pouch.

"Sir, Mr Vimes asked if you've worked it out yet?" she prompted.

Pessimal looked grave.

"It's in both despatches, constable." he confirmed. "Profesor Stibbons and I have surveyed using both mundane and magical instruments and we have fixed the position of this slave farm to within a few minutes of a degree each way."

Ponder saw, peripherally, Johanna Smith-Rhodes, Ruth N'Kweze and Precious Jolson . Who all stopped and paid attention to Pessimal. He knew this was going to matter to one of the three in particular. He just wished it was one of the other two…

"We are thirty solar minutes turnwise of the Dimwell Meridian. Sextant and other readings indicate that we are on latitude one hundred and fifty-one degrees and thirty-two minutes Rimwards. As I discussed with Professor Stibbons earlier, I have done some preliminary work in matching this information to the best available political maps. The maps of this region of Howondaland are a trifle confused and could be better explored and better surveyed. However, we are, so far as may be ascertained, within the borders of the Republic of Rimwards Howondaland."

Ponder saw Johanna wince. Pessimal continued.

"I'm sorry if this causes anguish to Miss Smith-Rhodes. However, we are currently, according to the political maps, at the very hubwards extremity of the Numibian province. As you know, this is an area disputed with Matabele."

Johanna frowned.

"There was a border clash here, some years ego." she said. "The Kletchians stepped in to broker a solution."

I understand the Treaty of Windhoek, brokered by Klatch, made this into a demilitarised area where no armed soldiers from ether nation can go." said Pessimal. He had read as many briefing papers on Howondalandian politics as he could manage. "As a consequence of this being a place where a war could start, very few people choose to live here. Both sides scrupulously honour the _"no armed troops" _rule. The land is undeveloped jungle and is of no great value or use to either nation. Nominally it belongs to Rimwards Howondaland, but the only value it has is symbolic."

"Neither side wishes a war. Neither side wishes the ruinous cost of keeping a gerrison here, so es to deny it to the other. Here in the jungle away from all amenities end herd to supply. So it is quietly left to its own devices." said Johanna. "The perfect place to locate a slave plentation. In plain sight in an area considered to be en expensive liability. Even if one side suspects , if it sends soldiers in to check, it is breaking the treaty end risking the stert of a war. Clever."

She sighed. Ruth offered a sympathetic smile, then turned to Precious. The policewoman, who was of Matabeleian origin, had dressed appropriately for the climate. It did nothing for the equanimity of mind of the men present.

She had kept her Watch boots, at least for the moment, but the rest of her uniform consisted of issue tropical shorts, a weapons belt carrying sword and cudgel, and her Watch badge at the left hip. She had also adopted a sweat-band at her brow with a large found feather tucked into it. And, apart from what observers would judge to be a wholly inadequate blaket poncho, not much else.

"Bloody good idea!" Ruth said, and disappeared back to the hut.

"Er… Ruth?" Precious started, but was cheerfully ignored. She exchanged a look with Johanna, who shrugged.

"Native dress. In your own country. You hev thet right." she said. She thoughtfully undid a couple of buttons on her tunic. _I am wearing a sleeveless vest underneath, after all. _Johanna looked round. Pessimal, Ponder Stibbons, a couple of other Watchmen who had ambled over… Haddock? And Visit, probably here because of his Hubwards Klatchian origins. Not Klatch the country, she recalled, but one of the smaller states around the Circle Sea coast. A man used to desert heat, he would take least acclimatisation. The two Air Policewomen, tending to their pegasii, and the gnomes Buggy Swires and Wee Mad Arthur. She knew and liked both. _But this might be fun… _

She allowed the Howondalandian Hunting Owl, named Johanna after her, to come to her left arm, where she wore a vambrace. (There might be need to use a conventional bow at some point; she was keeping her options open.) Falconry, or the approved methods of handling large carnivorous raptors, was not something she was yet expert in, but it was a discipline she'd seen demonstrated at the Zoo. King Verence of Lancre had gifted the Zoo several native hunting birds. He'd sent his falconer with them. Johanna had learnt much from the demonstration Mr Hodgesaaargh had given; mainly concerning how _**not**_ to do it.**(5)**

Making small…well, _trivial issues _talk - with the gnomes, Johanna the woman bonded with Johanna the hunting bird, noting it was sleepy in the Howondalandian sun and in all probability was jetlagged, having set off in the pre-dawn twilight from the city. _She will sleep after she has eaten, _Johanna thought, thinking to find the bird a quiet dark place to sleep. She carefully fed the bird on a few leathery strips of _biltong, _watching her fingers near the beak.

She looked at the male faces around her again as they turned from everyday and businesslike, the quiet vacancy of men going about not especially onerous tasks, to… Johanna carefully let her face go poker and expressionless. Inwardly she was laughing.

"Mr Erthur, I'm sure you ere eware thet this is a _nocturnel_ bird." she said, innocently talking business to a gnome who was looking at something else, jaw dropped and eyes wide open.

"Aye, whet?" he turned to her with an effort. Johanna stifled a giggle. _All _the men looked wide open of eye and jaw.

"Aye, well." he said. "His Lordship advised us to bring the owl, aye. He seemed to think you need someone to fly night missions, y'ken? Watch for things sneakin' up by night."

Johanna looked at the gnome. What did Vetinari know? She decided she and Ruth would also do at least one night patrol between them. Just to make sure.

And speaking of Ruth… here she came. _Ag, _at least her _shorts_ were Assassin-black. **(6)** The problem, from a Central Continent viewpoint, was that she really wasn't wearing much else. Sandals, yes. It was probably a long time since she'd last walked barefoot in Howondaland, and this was the jungle, not her native veldt and savannah in the Zulu country. Anklets and wrist belts, and an ornamented sweatband, in lionskin. Several beaded necklaces, one of which incorporated several uncut diamonds that subtly advertised her status. The assegai, the knobkerry, and the oval oxhide shield, whose colours proclaimed her to belong to the Kwa'Zulu Royal House. A cross-strapped Assassins' belt with many pouches, and a short jungle machete, a subtle point she'd picked up from Johanna.

And nothing else. Several men had gone bright red and were making every effort to look her in the eye and not let their vision drop anywhere below that. The gnomes had it worse, as to look Ruth in the eye they had to let their vision travel _up_ and _over…_

"Isn't it _great_!" Ruth proclaimed. "To be in a place that's recognisably home. To be able to dress _normally_ again, now I'm out of that city!"

Exhilarated, she did a triumphant little dance in the Zulu style, with shield-beating and stamping. This did not help things. Ponder Stibbons in particular looked most worried.- **(7) **Inspector Pessimal gulped. Visit muttered something about this being truly not holy in the sight of Om. Haddock just looked stupefied. Olga and Irina, on the other hand, were falling about laughing.

"Is anything wrong?" Ruth asked. "Why is everyone looking at me like that?"

"Er…" said A.E. Pessimal.

Precious sighed. Lance-Constable Jolson was dressed in a similar manner to Ruth, but also wore a blanket-top with a central hole cut out as an aperture for her neck. Draped around her like a poncho, it served as a modesty garment to cover up what needed to be covered. But given her height and the width of her shoulders, even the biggest blanket was hard put to give constant coverage. And anyway, things underneath tended to bounce and jiggle to the extent that she had - reluctantly - donned a bra.

"Ruth." Precious said. "How can I phrase this? "We may be back home in Howondaland, but we're surrounded by people who think they're still in Ankh-Morpork." A wave of her arm indicated the men. "Dressing for Howondaland is all very fine, but we're surrounded by white men, honey!"

Ruth grimaced, taking in the reasoning instantly. Nine years of living in Ankh-Morpork reasserted themselves, and she turned her back on the men with great dignity and poise. Her back, they noted, was long and slender and lovely to look upon.

"Sorry, boys." she said. "Precious, have you got another blanket?"

They returned to the womens' hut. All eyes followed them.

_-It's alright for Johanna…._ a distant complaint pronounced.

_-Well, yes. But in her country they don't go a bundle on women who dress in mens' clothes. They prefer Boor women to be sweet and demure and dress in skirts…_

_-They've got no chance, then…_

Johanna grinned. Then she helped Olga, Irina and visit unpack and stow the stores.

"Where Omnian missionaries have been welcomed into this Godless land, they have brought Om's gift of proper concealing underpinnings so that the women are decent and not shamed in His sight!" proclaimed Visit, as Johanna counted the meagre supply of crossbow quarrels available to them. She didn't like the total she arrived at.

"Come on, Visit. You mean a bra. A _Brassiere. _Three of us here are wearing one…" Irina baited him.

"Two." Johanna corrected her. It was too hot for a bra. She was sorry Precious and Ruth had been forced into it.

"No kidding?" Irina said, scrutinising Johanna. "Well, that baggy tunic hides a lot… but come on, Visit. Say it after me. Bra. Women's underwear. Designed with two cups and a series of straps and covered wires to hold everything in place and prevent undue bounce. But maybe too hot for here. Precious covered herself up on the first day, but then at heart she's an Ankh-Morpork girl of Howondalandian parentage. Besides, she doesn't want mucky-minded buggers like Haddock getting an eyeful of the goods. I can understand that. But just _say_ it, Visit! It's a perfectly normal item of clothing and half the human population wears one!"

"And dwarfs." added Olga. "And werewolves. Even if they have to have a special design that allows for the other four nipples."

To forestall an argument, Johanna said

"Vetinari said he wants Wee Mad Arthur to run night patrols. I do not think we hev been told _everything. _Therefore the Petricien knows, or suspects, something. I em sure Ponder end the Inspector are right ebout where we are. Which means thet forty or more miles Hubwards of us, there is a strong Matebelian ermy. End no further eway than fifty or sixty miles Rimwards of here, there will be a countering force of my own people's ermy, et least one full kommando. I would prefer to negotiate with either side. But if we are fired upon first, I need a deterrent. We hev eight crossbows end four pistol crossbows end barely two hundred rounds. This is not kiff. Please esk Mr Vimes for more emmunition. Please elso esk Lord Downey for formal longbows end errows. I require distance weapons. I will write you a list of whet is required from the Guild for His Lordship to provide. "

"OK, Johanna" said Olga. "We're flying back soon. Doctor Lawn says he's done all he can do, and he's got a hospital to run, so we're evacuating him and bringing out new personnel from the Lady Sybil. But it's likely we'll be doing three runs today, so we'll try to get you your stuff."

"Thenk you. End these retions will be… tolerable." Johanna said, holding up a catering-size tin marked _Quire Brand Named Meat And Kidney, _and frowning. The next one was _Hubspak Tinned Sausage. Guaranteed 30% meat. _She thought of Dibbler and shuddered. "But we cen do so much _better_ than this. I will take Ruth end Precious out into the bush later. You cen never know too much ebout your surrounding area, end I wish to see in daylight whet we will be petrolling by night."

Olga and Irina looked at each other.

"How many fighting soldiers in a Howondalandian impi?" Irina asked.

"Up to a thousand. Generelly eight hundred." Johanna replied, automatically. It was like being asked her name.

Olga whistled. "And they are up against two Assassins. I would not like those odds."

"No." replied Irina. "Those Matabeleians have _no_ chance. And at night? Forget it!"

Johanna grinned. She intended to check out the likeliest approaches to the slave-farm and place a few non-lethal surprises there. An afternoon recce would also scare away anyone out there who might be covertly watching in daylight, although she had scanned the jungle edges and seen no obvious signs, no spooked birds or animals. Anyway, the goblins were a very good perimeter guard. Any unfamiliar humans with weapons - and at this point she realised she'd better get introduced to the goblin community leaders - would announce themselves with screams and panic flight of a very brutalised people.

They worked on in silence, stowing food, equipment and weapons safely.

"Well" Olga said, straightening her back, "Better dress up and get back to the big city. Got your list for Downey, Johanna?"

A situation report was briefly written for the attention of the Guild Master. Johanna added a wish-list of equipment for the Guild to attend to. She paused and wrote a second, brief, report with a sketch-map, in the _Vondalaans_ language.

"It is for my uncle, the Howondalandian Ambassador, who I consider needs to know these things. " she said. Although no doubt Lord Vetinari will elso see the contents."

She then persuaded Pessimal to introduce her and Ruth to the goblins. She noted Ruth was now as covered up as Precious, in deference to male sensitivities. This was her first meeting with goblins. Johanna attempted to be as gentle as possible, assuring the goblin leader she was now pledged by her Guild to defend and guard them. This was an inviolable trust and in keeping with her training, she would die fighting if need be. But she wished to do her duty and remain alive.

"'_S'assin?" _the head Goblin said. "One of your kind was here. A she-sassin."

"Describe her." said Johanna.

"Not a black-skin human." the goblin said, indicating Ruth. Pale skin. Hair not like fox." he indicated Johanna's red. "Hair like burnt summer grass. Cold. Made of winter ice."

A description merged of an Assassin who sounded like the fugitive Lucinda Rust. Johanna and Ruth looked at each other. Their instructions had been to appeal to Lucinda's loyalties as a Guild member and point out she was under an obligation to tell all and tell it truthfully. If that didn't work, they were to capture and restrain. Lethal force if there were no alternative.

Further patient questioning ascertained the blonde woman Assassin had not been seen for a good six weeks, when the place had been a slave-farm. In that time she could have gone anywhere.

Johanna decided in the balance of probability, Lucinda was long gone, and decided not to let the information affect her planning. Instead, she got Precious and Ruth and informed them they were going on a long patrol. If they could bag a food animal or two to supplement the rations, so much the better.

"This is the Zoo manager speaking?" Ruth asked, grinning. Johanna winced.

"Hev you _seen _whet they've got there? Tins of _Quire Brand Named Meat End_ _Kidney_?**(8)**Not quite from the same butchers who supply the meat for Dibbler's sausage-inna-bun, but _ag_, would you throw it on your _braii_? End whet did I teach you on Wilderness Survival lessons, miss N'Kweze? As I recall, I taught you how to trep rebbits and things, end not to be squeamish ebout humanely killing them end preparing them for the pot! The same principle epplies here!"

Ruth grinned. She remembered. At least it was decently warm in this place and certainly no wilderness.

They paused to wave off the two pegasii and one eagle (which carried two Feegle on its back) and saw them into the sky. Johanna, who still itched for and coveted a Pegasus of her very own, watched them spiral up into the air, dwindling to tiny dots. She couldn't believe Irina had chosen to call her own magnificent beast _Черта Радуги. _Rainbow Dash.

Anf then the three women were off, Precious in front and hacking stolidly through the bush with her machete. They would completely circle the camp, spiralling outwards to about half a mile on this patrol, taking care to navigate in a roughly square spiral from which they would always be aware of the relative position of the camp. This was essential, even though the sea formed one side of the square.

Without speaking, they looked out for jungle tracks and ground-sign suggesting other human activity in the area. After a while, Ruth grunted with disgust and got out of the modesty-blanket and bra she'd been forced to wear. A few minutes later, Precious did likewise. Feeling she had to reciprocate in some obscure way, Johanna doffed her tunic and slung it around her waist, determined that the jungle-green vest she wore underneath was demn-well staying on.

"Cooler, isn't it?" Ruth said, breaking silence.

"Visit would have _fits!_" agreed Precious. Then she halted the patrol. A multicoloured bird took fright and exploded from the bush in a shower of red, green and yellow. As well as a lot of affronted chattering.

"Oh, _Wow_!" Precious exulted. I wonder if I can get one of those or some of its eggs to incubate, you know, just before I go home?"

Johanna was reminded the big policewoman bred tropical birds, with exceeding gentleness.

"Not only you." she said. "I hev a Zoo to menage. Perheps I can persuade Mr Vimes to send me a portable incubator end some trevelling cages."

"Cool!" said Precious.

And then, several yards further on, they found the trail. With sign to say it had been used by quite a few humans in the last fortnight or so. It pointed towards the farm. Johanna and the two other women looked at the ground sign and then at each other. _Trouble. _

* * *

><p><strong>(1) <strong>Like a_ grapevine, _but much lower down.

**(2) - **It's like this. The Discworld is flat. Therefore its cartographers don't have to worry about all that fiddly stuff like progressions, projections, and figuratively opening up the globe like the skin of an orange so as to best transfer its representation to a flat plane. No point: it's already on a flat plane and what you see is what you get. It was Discworld map-maker Jorkie Wilson, unwinding over a game of darts in his local pub one night, who had the inspiration for the grid co-ordinates in use today, by which a Discworld explorer may patiently work out whose jurisdiction he is in and by extension which local despot is likely to hang, execute, imprison or otherwise sacrifice him to the Gods for soiling his sacred turf.

Beginning at Cori Celesti, known in this scheme as _The Bullseye, _the Disc is divided up by eighteen concentric circles. After an abortive first attempt, it was decided these should be evenly spaced at 10º intervals. 0º is Cori Celesti; 180º is always The Rim, whatever direction you choose to travel in. This second division is catered for by having thirty-six radial lines - twenty, in the original conception - radiating out from Cori Celesti like evenly-spaced spokes on a wheel. Now all that was needed was to make one of these radial lines into an absolute reference, the master line of longitude and key meridian that all others would take their cue from. After much squabbling and arguing, it was decided that 0º longitude should pass through the middle of Ankh-Morpork and be called the _Dimwell Meridian.(3) _The means by which this goal was achieved are not clear but delegates to the International Geographical Congress, hosted by pure coincidence in Ankh-Morpork, were shown great hospitality by the city elders and the Guild of Seamstresses.

**(3) **Although Jorkie Wilson's original schema called the city _Treble Seventeen_.

**(4) **One had exclaimed _Hovondalaand, mijn Hovondalaand! _While the other had countered with _Umamalabathwe e-Vondalizwe!-_

**(4+1)**Apologies. Slightly different operating system means I'vw got to transfer footnotes from the text to the end manually. And I missed this one. It reads:-

These are guesses. It occurs to me that I've created a mechanism for doing things like working out answers to questions like "if it's noon in Howondaland, what time is it in Ankh-Morpork?" But I'd have to get a Discworld Mapp and over-write it with Jorkie Wilson's projections of latitude and longitude. And it's a canonical fact the disc is 10,000 miles in diameter… easy-peasy…

**(5) **Funny how ideas pop into existence. This will be a forthcoming _Zoo Tale._

**(6) **By Assassin rules, Ruth was perfectly properly dressed, with added marks for _style_ and _chic. _It was _Johanna_, in head-to-toe camouflage, who was technically improperly dressed - only her boots were black.

**(7) **You'd expect this, wouldn't you…caught between your girlfriend on the one hand, who is a graduate Assassin, and her practically naked colleague who in her own innocence is dressing normally for Howondaland, not stopping to reflect that the number of practically naked women Ponder has seen in the flesh can be counted on the fingers of one hand. , (and possibly the first ever for Visit and Pessimal…). The dilemma is, Ponder is unsure how far he can take in Ruth without annoying Johanna…. Something the other men present do not need to worry about. Male readers who are one half of a couple will know the sensation. It has overtones of "_you are doomed if you do and doomed if you don't" .-_

**(8)** _Tyne Brand _is a popular-ish British brand of tinned meat. It looks and smells like catfood, although it doesn't taste all that horrible if it is properly cooked. You can also get tins of mock-frankfurter sausages that look like something Mr Dibbler might sell in a bun. Danepak is a popular brand name


	5. Snuffing out 3 A Rumble in the Jungle

_**Kind of picking up from the previous chapter... I've had ideas, but maybe not enough to finish a story on. **_

_**Donkerste Hovondalaand is alleen donkere die blindfolds dragen, aan hem die niet denken, hun hersenen zijn gehard en stoffige (Antibiotika - Afrikaans poetry)**_

_Darkest Howondaland is only dark to those wearing blindfolds, to him who cannot think, whose brain is hardened and dusty_

_Where we left off…._

And then, several yards further on, they found the trail. With sign to say it had been used by quite a few humans in the last fortnight or so. It pointed towards the farm. Johanna and the two other women looked at the ground sign and then at each other.

_The Story Continues._

As Johanna, Ruth and Precious contemplated their discovery, the magical _thlabber_ left an octarine after-glow in the sky and a vaguely tinny taste in the mouth of Ponder Stibbons. As he wondered just exactly what sort of magic the NacMacFeegle were able to tap into, and he contemplated its exciting possibilities if Unseen University was able to replicate it, the two Pegasii popped into existence about a thousand feet above the plantation. As they spiralled into land, Ponder noted that each was laden with two passengers and large panniers. More: each was towing a tethered magic carpet full of cargo. He was impressed: somebody at the Ankh-Morpork end of the _crawstep_ was thinking on their feet.

He watched a… _pair of ladies' underpinnings? _detach itself from the lead Pegasus, and float down to the Howondalandian bush. The absurd-looking double- cupped device filled with air and slowed the descent of the Feegle dangling from its modified shoulder-straps. He wondered briefly about the woman who it had belonged to: possibly a Valkyrie who had traded in the traditional beaten metal for something lighter and more comfortable.

The Feegle hit the ground lightly and rolled, briefly entangling himself in the adapted brassiere. As he released himself, he said, conversationally

"Aye, weel, back again!"

The tiny watchman looked up, appraisingly, at Ponder.

"We got the things yon gurlie asked for, aye. As weel as some more gurlies frae the Guild of Assassins."

Ponder, speechlessly, nodded at the improvised parachute.

"Och, aye." Buggy Swires said, thoughtfully. "It's a canny device, ye ken, for getting safely to Disc from a height. Remind me to get it back intae Lady Sybil's closet, afore she misses it!"

Ponder understood. Even legal Feegles considered a useful item obtained via theft was somehow more legitimate than one obtained lawfully. But still…. Lady Sybil? _ah well…._

"Ye Gods, it's bloody _hot _here!" a familiar voice said.

"Welcome to Howondaland, Miss Band." he heard A.E. Pessimal say, in his usual calm-but-diffident voice.

Alice Band was dressed as if for an Assassin contract in the more clement Central Continent. Obviously nobody had thought to brief her: she wore Assassin black and was even cloaked. Her bow was slung over her back and a well-stocked quiver hung at her hip. Ponder noticed she also wore a sword and had two pistol crossbows tucked through her belt. Sweat was also trickling down her brow, and as she doffed and folded the cloak, he noticed it was gathering down the back of her tunic and puddling in dark stains under her arms.

"Perhaps, Miss Band, you should talk to Miss Smith-Rhodes about appropriate clothing for this climate." Pessimal said, helpfully.

Alice noted Pessimal was at his ease and was sweating not at all, and scowled for an instant.

"I _have_ been here once before, Mr Pessimal." she said, irritably. In response to the unspoken question, she said: "I took a crack at the Fabulous Jewelled Temple of Offler. In the old days. I braved the bloody jungle, deadly creatures, heat, sweat, messed-up-hair, and all the traps they built into the temple. And when I finally bloody well got there, I discovered they'd replaced the jewelled diamond eye with a piece of glass. All that for bloody _glass_! This little priest I backed up into a corner with a knife to his throat told me I was too late, somebody had beaten me to it. I was _furious_!"**(1)**

Pessimal nodded, sympathetically.

"The perils of stealth archaeology, miss Band." he said.

"At least you got a very good sausage-in-a-bun out of it, Alice." another Assassin said, soothingly.

Alice grinned, ruefully. "Offlerian priests have to be good for _something_." she agreed. Alice Band was a cradle Ionian. "Warthog and okapi flavour, as I remember. Far superior to Dibbler's things! You know, I'm surprised Offler hasn't struck Dibbler dead for offences against sausages!"

"Maybe Offler wants him as a living warning." Jocasta Wiggs suggested. "You know, a taste of Hell for those who offend against Offlerianism."

Alice, good humour restored, laughed.

"Come on. Let's get this lot unloaded. Where _is_ Johanna, anyway?"

"I believe miss Smith-Rhodes is on patrol in the local area." Pessimal said, helpfully. "She appeared to suspect there might be trouble, and that we will not be left undisturbed much longer."

"She took Miss N'Kweze and Constable Jolson with her." Ponder added, helpfully.

Alice digested it.

"Johanna, Ruth and Precious Jolson." she said, reflectively. "Well, if there's any trouble out there, it's not likely to be troublesome for very long. I feel quite sorry for any trouble, in fact. Come on, let's get this stuff unloaded and secured. Ponder, where's the designated armoury?"

* * *

><p>Johanna dropped to one knee and raised her free hand in the universal patrol signal to <em>halt<em>. He free hand cradled her crossbow. It was loaded and nocked with the safety catch off.

Precious dropped to a crouch, moving silently and smoothly for such a large woman. She readied her weapon. Ruth swung round to cover their rear, making herself a small target behind her flat hide shield. Her free hand levelled the short stabbing assegai down the track. Designed for close in fighting, it could be a thrown weapon in extremis. Her machete was loose in its scabbard.

After a while of listening intently, Johanna signalled down the track. She paused at one point to check the sign, noticing low-level vegetation had been flattened and stems broken not by animals but by human feet; bare feet. She conferred briefly with Ruth in Assassin finger-code.

_Best you and Precious go in. I'm white. If I'm seen fighting, that's breaking the treaty. I don't want to start a war._

Ruth nodded. She tapped Precious on the arm.

"_Police Action_" she breathed into the larger woman's ear. Precious nodded understanding. This would be an arrest, hopefully, rather than a firefight. The Ankh-Morpork City Watch was known all over the world. Whole nations, or at least their ambassadors and politicians, had backed down and blinked when Sam Vimes stared them out and asked if they felt lucky. Vimes had once arrested an entire _battlefield_ for breach of the peace. Two whole armies.

The three women moved on, Johanna staying discreetly in the rear. She had used local mud to camouflage her skin and break up the highly visible gift offered by large areas of pale skin. It was an old trick she'd learnt in the Selouis Scouts, a long time ago. Although she wished she'd brought some cam cream with her. _Ah well_.**(2)**

Ruth tapped her on the shoulder and pointed. Johanna nodded. She'd almost missed it. They had come round in a wide square spiral and had reached a point where they were near enough to the plantation perimeter to observe what was going on. Just at the jungle edge, Ruth had drawn her attention to two regularly-shaped hummocks in the ground. They looked like small grassy bumps about six feet long. But why were they both _the same size_? That never happened in Nature….

Johanna nodded to Ruth and Precious, then turned to guard their rear against any more trouble. The two women moved quickly and silently forward. Johanna glimpsed Precious rapping her cudgel hard against one of the supposed hillocks. There was a hollow wooden thump, and the bump in the ground shifted convulsively. Loose grass and vegetation fell off it revealing a wicker and wooden frame underneath. There was an "oof!" noise.

Ruth kicked the other frame and ululated a war cry in the Zulu language. Johanna forgave her for breaking silence. This was the Howondalandian way of fighting, after all._ Ag_, it was her country.

The structure moved and rolled over, cascading grass, and a well-muscled male warrior scrambled to his feet, scrabbling for his spear. The strange structure, oddly organic and double-lobed, like a peanut shell scaled up many times, turned out to be a shield that covered his whole body. Johanna recognised it: Matabele tribal design.

"_Kwa'Zulu?" _he said, incredulously. Johanna reflected that the Matabele and the Zulu tribes hated each other passionately and had fought wars. It was a happy state of affairs that Rimwards Howondaland's foreign policy sought to sustain. It kept the Staadt's two major enemies separate and made any joint attack unthinkable.

She smiled as the six-foot well-muscled Matabele warrior saw only a woman, smaller and slighter than he was. Over-confidence wasn't just an Assassin failing. The subsequent fight was short and decisive and saw him sprawled on the ground with a Zulu spear-point at his belly. Ruth said something in a Howondalandian language, in a cheerful friendly tone. Johanna was not completely fluent in Zulu, but recognised the words for "defeated warrior" and "custom" and "disembowelment". The fact Precious was holding his comrade up with one hand, and slapping him gently round the face with the other in order to wake him up, was not lost on him.

There was a sudden crashing noise in the undergrowth. Johanna whirled to meet it. Recognising, and offering a prayer for forgiveness to the God of Zoology, if there was one, she fired. A large warthog, shot through the heart, leapt, convulsed, and was still.

"_I'm sorry," _she thought, noting it was a large mature male. _"But it was either you, or Quire Brand Named Meat and Kidney tonight. Tinned."_

"Ruth!" she called, urgently. "Remember you are en Essessin! Don't gut him! I need the fellow _elive_, end besides, there's no contrect fee! _Nil Mortifi Sine Lucre!_ Remember?"

Ruth grinned, sheepishly, and lowered her spear.

"Besides, they cen cerry the meat. They cen be useful."

She nodded to the dead warthog.

"We need to get this prepared end jointed. Or it will spoil end we will hev to eat thet _verdammte_ tinned meat."

The prisoner's eyes narrowed. He loked up at Johanna, who glared back.

"_Boor?" _he said, spitting the word out.

"_Ja. Boor_." Johanna said, curtly. "I will not insist you cell me _baas-lady_. But you will live. I may elso ellow you to eat bush-pork tonight."

* * *

><p>Alice and the others paused in unloading the pegasii and the magic carpets.<p>

Joe-le-Tahski, a Morporkian of Klatchian ancestry, had accompanied the newcomers. He ran a flying taxi service in the city, and sometimes ran contract jobs for the city authorities. This had been a new one on him: the fleet of carpets he managed were small ones, City runabouts, and the longest trips he had ever done had been contract flights to Quirm and the Plains cities.

He was rueful that Lord Vetinari and Sam Vimes had ordered him to turn the meters off. _Several thousand miles to Howondaland with the meter running.. Ka-ching! _

"I'm not sure how the little buggers managed it." he said. "But it certainly has applications. We've proven it works with _one_ carpet harnessed to one of them winged _djinni_ horses. The carpet magic supports the load, no strain on the horse, the pilot just makes sure to keep station 'cos he's being towed. In principle you could have a string of carpets, like canal barges."

"We can try that tomorrow." Olga Romanoff said. "We've got to get the horses back to the City to feed and rest them. _Govno, what the hell was that?"_

An ululating war-cry echoed from out of the jungle followed by the sound of steel clashing on steel. Ponder jumped, but he noticed none of the new Assassins seemed unduly alarmed. In fact, they were grinning.

"That sounded like Ruth N'Kweze enjoying herself." Jocasta said.

"Most definitely." agreed Alice Band. "If you can't let yourself go a bit on a holiday at home…"

"There's not going to be _fighting_, is there?" Joe asked, nervously. "I left the old tulwar at home, miss. Mind you, there's a cosh hidden under the carpet for dealing with tricky passengers late at night, after the pubs close…"

"We'll get you home, Joe." Irene Politek assured him. "Buggy, Arthur, you two come back here right _now_!"

The two Feegle had perked up on hearing the magic word "fight". Alice smiled to herself. Assassins, some of the tougher fighters in the Watch, one Wizard who'd proven himself in difficult places, two Air Police witches, a taxi driver used to dealing with difficult late-night fares, and now two Feegle. _Bring it on._

They went on unloading the carpets.

"Johanna wanted longbows as well as crossbows." Jocasta said, unloading another bale of tied arrows, Assassin-issue. "Distance weapons."

"Good for breaking up charges from massed infantry." Alice reflected. "Provided you have a defensible position, enough trained archers, and a good supply of ready arrows. Lawkes' Drain is in this country, isn't it?"

The battle of Lawkes' Drain had taken place during the Zulu War of over a hundred years before.**(3)** Both Johanna and Ruth had ancestors who had fought there.

"Maybe that's what she was thinking of." Pessimal said. "But Lawkes' Drain was a mission station that had been turned into a makeshift fortress. We have no such fortifications here. Besides, Lord Rust had previously made the error of trying to engage Zulu warriors on an open plain. The Ankh-Morporkian Army he led was destroyed in detail when they charged right over him."

Alice winced.

"That's all we need right now. Johanna getting a rush of ancestral memory to the head."

"She did ask for _these_, Alice." Jocasta said, holding an item up.

Alice smiled a long slow smile.

"Good old Johanna." she said, at length. "I admire the way she thinks. Ponder, what sort of magic have you got that can augment these devices?"

There was a rumbling from the jungle. All heads turned to watch the procession coming in.

"Ah. " Alice said. "She's back. Looks like she's got company."

The two Matabele prisoners were supporting a pole made from their two spears tied together. It rested on their shoulders with an animal carcass tied to it by its hooves. They had been disarmed and didn't look happy. Johanna and Ruth were escorting, Precious following on with an armload of captured shields and miscellaneous weaponry.

"And she can tell me what the bloody hell's going on round here." Alice added.

* * *

><p><strong>(1) <strong>See _**Reaper Man **_by Terry Pratchett for how Death himself aced Alice to the jewel**. **

**(2) **A trick she'd learnt from observing clowns. She had thought about the principle involved and had bought clown slap in various shades of brown, black and green and had experimented, along with selected students. The Guild was very slowly moving out of its opposition to camouflage, a change largely brought about by Johanna and the Guild's art mistress, Gillian Lansbury, who taught her Still Life module in a _very_ practical way. Young Assassins learnt to observe and to visually record what they saw in her Art classes. She also gave course credits to Art students who could combine colour and form into practical, undetectable, camouflage patterns.

The Selouis Scouts were one of the most formidable jungle fighting units in our world. Fighting for the old Rhodesian Army, they were effectively part-commandos, part Special Forces, and feared by black insurgents fighting the civil war. It is no surprise Johanna Smith-Rhodes served with their Discworld equivalent during her National Service. It's part of what makes her badass in a fight.

**(3) **The battle of Lawkes' Drain and the Zulu War on the Discworld are - or will be - covered in my fanfic** "**_**Ripping Yarn**_**". **It stalled halfway through. Patience….


	6. Snuffing out 4: digging in

_**Kind of picking up from the previous chapter... The last chapter is plotted out and will have Johanna and Ponder taking their romance a necessary step further, but I've still only the vaguest ideas of how it gets there and what the markers will be on the journey. **_

"You are not dressed for this country." Johanna said curtly to Alice Band, looking her colleague up and down critically. "_Ag, _woman, you're pouring sweat!"

"Thank you, Alice, for responding to my message so promptly and bringing me all the equipment I needed." Alice said, sardonically. "Why, don't mention it, Johanna, glad to help!"

Sergeant Pessimal bravely stepped up to them. Both women were taller than he was, by several heads in Alice's case.

"Er, Miss Smith-Rhodes," he said, diffidently, "Perhaps now the cargo is largely unloaded, Miss Band and Miss Wiggs might want to be shown the ladies' hut, so they can take the opportunity to change clothes?"

Johanna nodded, then smiled warmly.

"Welcome to my Howondaland, Ellice, Jocesta!"

Alice grinned. She realised the heat and discomfort were making her irritable. She clasped hands with her old friend, and Johanna indicated the women's hut. They walked across the compound.

"Brought friends, Johanna?" Alice asked, indicating the two captured warriors. One had a very visible black eye and the other looked miserably downcast. Precious and Constable Visit were now guarding them. Johanna shrugged.

"Those two fellows were wetching the cemp. " she said, off-handedly. "En old Metebele trick. Those big shields they cerry double es shelters. They hed cemouflaged them end were taking their ease underneath, wetching us. Precious spotted them first when I didn't. But then, she is Metebele herself. It emezes me how she hes become one with the jungle so quickly, for a girl brought up in Enkh-Morpork!"

Alice nodded, reflectively.

"Is it my imagination, Johanna, or is that man with the black eye, er, _looking _at Precious?"

One of the captured warriors was in fact sneaking sly, furtive, side-glances at Precious Jolson. To Alice's eyes, it reminded her of a nervous young man at a dance plucking up courage to speak to a girl.

Johanna spluttered with laughter.

"Well, she _is_ very eye-cetching! And, ja, he wes esking ebout how many oxen he would need to give to her father to merry her. I believe he is very taken with our Precious!"

Alice laughed. Jocasta said, reflectively, "How did Precious take that?"

"Well, I heard her saying, 'in your _dreams_, matey!'."

Jocasta spluttered with laughter. Then she said

"You know, mi.. _Johanna_… that makes it easier, in a way. Precious speaks their language and she's best placed to talk to them and get answers as to who they are and what they were up to. Now there's a hard way to do that, but I wonder if all she needs to do to get them talking is to stand there and, well, _smile_ at them. I should imagine one of them will talk to a woman he finds attractive, and say more than he should."

Johanna looked at her, with an approving nod.

"I see we taught you well, miss Wiggs! End by the way, was thet almost a "Miss" I heard there? How many times do I need to tell you, Jocesta. You are not a student eny more! Beck then in the clessroom, I was Miss Smith- Rhodes. Now, we ere telking as Essessin to Essessin. Equals, yesno? You hev no difficulty calling our colleague Ellice to her face."

Jocasta sighed.

"I know, I really do. But seven years are hard to get over."

"Get over them. I need equals here. Not students." Johanna said, curtly. "Besides, Ellice esked for you because you are _good_. I respect thet. You ARE good!"

They walked on in silence, aware they were being watched from the stockade that housed the former labour camp guards. Johanna pointed this out.

"We are feeding them. We are keeping them elive. Not out of kindness, but because they are to stend trial for their crimes." she said, loudly enough for it to be heard. "End because we ere not them. Thet is a distinction. End now it will not only be Enkh-Morpork end possibly Quirm. These crimes were cerried out _here_, in _my_ nation, Rimwards Howondaland. I em sure thet even es we speak, our embessedor to Enkh-Morpork will be petitioning Lord Vetinari for representation et those criminal trials. End we _elso _hev the death penalty!"

"If even half of what I hear is true." Alice said, coldly, "I would be pleased to inhume these men myself. Pro bono, and with extreme prejudice."

"The Quirmians have the guillotine." Jocasta reflected. "I remember Madame Deux-Epées describing a public execution she witnessed in Quirm City. She strongly suspected the head of a person so decapitated retains consciousness for up to a minute after the blade drops. The pain and agony the brain experiences must be excruciating!"

They sensed a sudden complete silence from the prison stockade. As if a lot of people were listening intently. Good, thought Alice.

"And if they try to escape…" Alice mused, thoughtfully, "then we may use all means to recapture the prisoner. That's good. I haven't been part of a decent manhunt for absolutely _ages_!"

And then the three turned and walked on, their points made.

"Since the Quirmians have an interest here, do you think they'd send Emmanuelle on the next flight?" Alice speculated.

"She's the obvious choice." Jocasta said. "Somebody to report back to the Quirmian government about what's happening here, and to represent their interests. If they need a Quirmian who knows how political games are played, and somebody who knows how to fight _as well_, so she wouldn't just be a diplomatic passenger, I'm sure the thought must have occurred to His Lordship…."

There was a moment of contemplative silence as all three pondered Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard Les Deux-Epées, taken out of the ease and comfort of a city and dropped into an inhospitable hot sweaty and utterly inelegant jungle wilderness, hundreds of miles from the nearest good restaurant. Jocasta looked at the other two. Who were both trying to keep very straight faces.

"He _would_, wouldn't he." Alice said.

"Without eny doubt." agreed Johanna. Both knew Lord Vetinari's sense of humour.

"She'll be _furious_." said Alice.

"_Gut. _Right now I need fury, if this thing goes the way I fear it might." Johanna said.

They arrived at the women's hut and unsung their bags. Johanna stood guard over their visible outer weapons as both delved into backpacks.

"Dress _light_." Johanna advised them. "Although _perheps _not es light es Ruth end Precious. One layer, where possible. Until you ecclimatise to the jungle, it will be wise to hev a shirt with long sleeves available. Sunburn is a consideretion. Elso, on bush trails, ell sorts of creepers end undergrowth will scretch et your exposed skin. Some will be poisonous. I will take you both on short petrols end show you whet to be eware of. Swords may not be effectual here. Do you hev mechetes? I esked for spares to be sent out."

"Johanna, I _have_ been here before!" Alice reminded her, from somewhere inside.

"_Ja_. Once. But thet is still better then not et ell!"

Johanna stood guard on their weapons outside the hut until both women re-emerged. She nodded approval. Alice was now in fairly skimpy bush-green shorts cut high on her thigh. She wore the same sort of sleeveless vest that Johanna had favoured, although to Johanna's eyes it was almost indecently figure-hugging. A khaki bush shirt was tied about her waist. She carried two pistol crossbows in holsters with a bandolier of quarrels slung across her chest. Knives were carried in sheaths strapped to each thigh and upper arm. Further knives were tucked into the top of each boot. Her long auburn hair was tied back in a loose pony-tail and she wore round-lensed glasses with a deep dark tint to the glass. A loose peaked cap carrying a matt-enamelled Assassins' Guild badge completed her dress.

Jocasta Wiggs was dressed pretty much similarly, as if emulating her mentor.

Johanna smiled.

"Stealth Archaeologist chic, I see. It's es good es enything!"

"My tutor, Lorenzo Cronk, dressed this way for missions." Alice said, "It's very practical and it shows you mean business."

Alice sighed.

"I really _miss_ old L.C." she said. "I wonder what happened to her."

"Johanna? Miss Lansbury sent something for you." Jocasta said, remembering. "She remembered your experimenting with camouflage paint. I'm _sure_ this is healthier than using mud and dirt!"

Jocasta delved into her backpack and came out with a bag of squeezy metal tubes of something familiar.

"Grabpot Thundergust's best clown slap, from the Halls of Elven Perfume and Rouge." she said. "In black, burnt umber, sienna, white, and three different greens."

Johanna took it gratefully.

"Thenk Gillian for me." she said, with gratitude. "She wes very thoughtful. I will show you both how to use this, later."

"And Doctor Bellamy sent a wish-list of plant cuttings she'd quite like…"

"If time allows." Johanna said.

They returned to the central compound. They found Inspector Pessimal had issued small knives to the two Matabele prisoners, who were engaged in skinning and cleaning the warthog for cooking. Pessimal, a practical man, had assigned them this work, reasoning they would be best at it. As he was a _very_ practical man, he'd requested Ruth N'Kweze and Constable Haddock stand nearby with loaded crossbows. Precious Jolson, daughter of a renowned caterer, was supervising building a fire and setting up a spit to roast the carcass over. As she worked, she was talking to the two prisoners, translating their replies back into Morporkian.

"Good to have a _braii_ in the evening, isn't it?" Johanna said, affably.

"A shame there's no _mealiepap_."**(3)** Pessimal said, surprisingly. "But some Brindisian polenta came with the rations, and we have oatmeal. Perhaps we can improvise?"

"You know ebout the _braii_, Mr Pessimal?" Johanna asked, interested.

"I am privileged to have been invited to dinner with White Howondalandians." the little Inspector replied. "Finding out about the customs and conventions associated with alfresco eating in your country was very enlightening! You will, of course, assume the role of _braiimaster _here? It is your country, after all." **(1)**

"A great honour." Johanna said, poker-faced. "Es there are no Boor men here**, **the duty must fall to me by default."

Then she remembered.

"Precious, hev our guests said enything of interest? I wish to know where they came from, who sent them, end most importently where the rest of them ere. Two soldiers are never far from the rest of their unit."

Prcious led her away from the fire.

"I think one of them understands Morporkian, Johanna." she said, cautiously.

"_Ja_." Johanna reflected. "They were not only sent to wetch, but elso to listen. Thet makes sense."

"From what they said, I believe they had only just relieved a previous detail sent to watch. So at least they won't be missed for a while. They may not be the only watching post nearby."

"We will patrol egain before the evening meal." Johanna decided. "It will be good to introduce Ellice end Jocesta to the jungle. Why are they here?"

Precious frowned.

"They said they will not be prisoners for very long. They were sure of that. That's why they're looking a bit glum."

Johanna understood. She'd fought these people before.

"Because they let themselves be ceptured? I hev encountered this before. A warrior does not let himself be taken in bettle. It is considered best thet he dies fighting."

"They asked… well, Esi-Awotwe asked…" Precious blushed for an instant - "that if we get out of the fight alive, can they go to _{{big-city-smells-of-sewage}} _with us? That is, to Ankh-Morpork."

"Tell them it could be erranged. But they seem sure there will be a fight?"

"Their Regiment is two days' march away. Eight hundred fighting warriors, Johanna. And as far as I can gather, a royal regiment, a Prince's bodyguard unit."

"OK. Johanna said, her mind running numbers and distances and making calculations. "Do they hev intentions to move?"

"Their Prince was in on the slave farm, Johanna. He was taking a cut in exchange for protection and support. Esi.. the prisoners… say he's concerned he hasn't had his percentage this month. That's why he's moved as closely as he dares without breaking the Treaty, and sent covert patrols in to investigate."

"So they'll have seen the ferm is under new menagement end the old guards are locked up. If he does not know now, he will when the first petrol reports beck. End when this one does not, because we hev them under guard end disarmed, he will then move closer in more strength."

_We have two days to prepare defences. Set a few little surprises. _

Johanna said, aloud: "Precious, speak to them more. I suspect this will not be an ordeal for you. Find out, especially, ebout this Prince. Ell you can. It will be useful when the time comes to negotiate. I would prefer thet to fighting. Now I must telk to people. Make a plen."

Johanna returned to the main group. Precious went to supervise getting the warthog onto a cooking spit. At least, Johanna thought, they'd eat better tonight.

"Well?" Alice Band asked, impatiently. She was sitting with her back up against a tree bole. The way she had chosen to dress was not helping male equanimity of mind. Right now she was cleaning and checking her personal weaponry. This was a job that necessarily took time. Jocasta called over Ponder Stibbons, Pessimal, Jocasta, and the two Watch witches, and explained what she had found out.

"What do you suggest?" Ponder asked. The idea of eight hundred spear-armed Howondalandian warriors charging over the camp did not fill him with joy.

"Firstly, we take some elementery defensive precautions to slow them down." Johanna said. "An ermy cennot charge or even march in step when the ground they hev to edvence over hes been suitably prepared. If an ermy depends on weight of numbers et the charge, then we should see to it thet this edventege is minimised. End we ell hev spades!"

" Professor Stibbons, we spoke of certain things magic may and may not do?" Alice prompted him.

Ponder sighed.

"I can use magic for three things here. I can set alarms, I can confuse, I can hide things. I would be happiest not to use magic to kill people, though. Wizards used to do that sort of thing all the time in the old days and it started getting really messy. Self-defence is another thing, if my life is at risk."

"I too would be heppy if you did not kill anyone, Ponder." Johanna said, gently.

"Demarcation…" Jocasta murmured, very quietly. Somebody spluttered.

Inspector Pessimal asked "I foresee a difficulty with conventional alarms and tripwires. There are hundreds of goblins here whose defence and protection must be our first priority. It would be unthinkable to surrender them to a venal despot who would only enslave them again. But we cannot track their movements and it is possible they might set off tripwires or fall into traps we set. As could wild animals. Professor Stibbons, can magical alerts be set that can only be triggered by humans?"

"Yes. It's just a matter of setting them to a particular bio-magical field only humans possess." he said. Although this isn't perfect. Great Apes might trigger them, as they are so like us. We share 97% of our bio-mystical field with chimpanzees, for instance. **(5) **And there _is_ another possibility. Johanna, don't the Howondalandian tribal armies always have a witch-finder with them? I recall you told me that once."

"_Ja_, thet is true." she said. "On this side of the continent, it's a _witch-doctor_. My nation's ermy resisted using megic for a long time. Now we know better and every kommando hes the services of a field-wizard. Usually the two megic-users cencel each other out end the fight is won by more conventional means… oh…."

Ponder nodded.

"Yes, exactly. A more powerful wizard than I could negate all the magic I put into the defences, _and_ beat me in a magical fight. And, Johanna, you should know a magical battle between two wizards is normally to the death. Look, I didn't make the rules!"

_Ponder, what have I brought you into? _

There was a discreet cough.

"He's not on his own, you know." Irena Politek. "Look. I'm in the Watch. That's my job. But I wear a pointy hat. I fly a broomstick. I studied in Lancre. What does that make me? And Olga?"

"A magic user on his own native ground is powerful." Ponder insisted. "Mustrum Ridcully defeated the Zulu witch-finders in Ankh-Morpork because they were a long way from home and he was near his own power-base. Here, it's the opposite."

"Have you _never_ met Mistress Weatherwax?" demanded Olga. "Now _she_ believes a witch is at home wherever she happens to be standing. And _govno_, she trained us!"

"And we witches don't fight to the death." Irena added. There was a brief pause. "We're _nastier_ than that."

"_That's _Granny Weatherwax too!" Olga added, triumphantly. "Ponder, you're a nice guy and you aren't as full of _govno_ as other wizards I could mention, but will you just stop acting like you're the only bloody magic user here! Aargh, this makes me _mad_! To hell with this _govno_!"

She turned, breathed deeply, and called:

"Precious, take a few steps back, would you? _Spassibo_."

Precious, who had just set the bush-pork carcass on its spit above the as yet unlit fire, recognised the signs of an irritated witch, and leapt back. Olga pointed a finger. The fire leapt into being, fully-formed. Olga turned back.

The words of magic-users have force and power which can be directed. Swear words have great power. A swear word from a witch is as good as a magic spell, especially when she needs to vent.

"Right. Calm again. Where were we?"

"Err.. Olga?" Jocasta said, pointing. Both the Matabele warrior prisoners were stumbling towards her. Both were ashen-grey. They dropped to their knees a respectful distance away from Olga and started making imploring sounds in their native language. Precious stepped forwards to translate.

"The general gist is… err.. Oh mighty Witch-Doctor. We are sorry we have offended you by going where we are not wanted and intruding on your peace of mind. How may we please you? How may we serve you so your wrath which is like the mighty rains and lightnings over Lake K'Donga passes over us? We will fight your enemies, be faithful warriors in your service, only please don't kill us. We implore you. Errr…"

Olga nodded, as only a Zlobenian from a Grand Ducal family can nod, and extended a finger.

"Precious, tell them. I know the custom of the pointing bone. I know what it means to a Howondalandian. I know its power. Got that? If they stop and think about it, I am pointing the bone at them _right now_. Only it's a living bone, in my finger, and it's attached to a witch. And by the great God Boffo, I hear them and bind them to my will. They will live, and for goodness sake will they stop bloody grovelling, and for the moment, they are to be good boys and not try to escape. I may have other instructions later. Thank you."

"The great God Boffo?" demanded Irena.

"Hey, _you_ try doing better on the spur of the moment! At least you don't need to have anyone guarding them now."

Alice Band extended a hand.

"Welcome to the team." she said.

* * *

><p>They agreed a plan. Johanna would take Jocasta on an orientation patrol, to show her the lie of the ground and give her some crash training in jungle survival. Ruth would take Alice, but patrol the opposite Rimwards side. Buggy Swires would travel with the magic carpets back to Ankh-Morpork. He would escort Joe back, as it was agreed he should be treated as a non-combatant in the event of hostilities. They would carry reports and requests for further equipment. Precious would remain in the camp and prepare the evening meal; the two paroled prisoners would be left in her care to assist. Pessimal, Haddock, Ponder and the others were to ask for the help of the goblins in getting somethings done around the camp perimeter.<p>

Buggy grumbled, largely at missing a fight, but a sharp word from Olga called him to heel with a mumbled "Yes, ma'am."

"How do you do _that_?" Alice asked. She'd once had a run-in with Feegles in Lancre. It still made her glow with embarrassment to recall it. She'd seen for herself how unruly and embeddable they could be. **(6) **Olga smiled.

"It's a witch thing. It doesn't matter that he's a corporal and I'm a constable. Let's say witches have the secret of the Feegle Word."

"Aye. Yon Zlobenian's a hag, alright." Buggy grumbled. "'tis bad cess to gainsay a hag."

"Literal meaning of the word _babiushka_". Irena explained. "Old woman. Or a hag. Or "witch."

"And if you think _we're _good, you should see Tiffany Aching!" Olga said. A thought struck her. "Hey, could we get word to Tiff ? She'd bring her own private army of Feegles with her! _And_ they'd fight for her!"

"Tiffany's this witch we know." Irena explained. "She got to be queen of the Feegle, one of their keldas. They'd follow her anywhere!"

Olga and Irena were to perform aerial searches to Hubwards and Rimwards. Wee Mad Arthur would join them on one of the Watch eagles. They were to patrol as far out as they could in two hours and observe for signs of large numbers of soldiers on the march.

"It will be difficult over thick jungle." Johanna said. She'd seen the jungle from above, for the first time, on her flight in. She'd marvelled at it, and speculated on this being a kiff way to get into the high forest canopy to observe and make notes on the wildlife here._ There may be time for that yet, _she told herself. "But not impossible. I eccept there is no way to be inconspicuous on a flying white horse with wings. But do your best. Look for panicked birds end wildlife. Thet is a sure sign thet humans are nearby. Essess numbers end speed, end report beck to me."

Olga nodded. And asked "But the known threat comes from the Hubwards, surely? I do not mind patrolling to Rimwards, but what might come from there?"

"Enother ermy." Johanna replied. "This one dressed like me, with white skins. I believe there is a gerrison three days to the Rimwards of here. When they receive word the Metebele ere on the march, they will march elso."

"So," Alice said, "Your people may have soldiers patrolling this area, too."

"_Ja_." said Johanna. "end they will meet each other somewhere ebout…"

She pointed a finger straight down.

"Here. Aren't we _lucky_!"

"Oh, incredibly so." muttered Alice.

* * *

><p><strong>(1) <strong>In South Africa, the _braii_ is, on the face of it, an informal relaxed outdoor barbecue. Which it is, but it's hedged about with informal traditions and roles and duties. The _braiimaster_ calls the shots and makes the decisions. This is usually an older alpha male**(2)** with lots of _braii_ experience under his belt. His word is law as regards cuts of meat and fish to be grilled, when, how many, what kind, and how long for. He is supported by one or two _tongmasters, _who are aspirant _braiimasters_ who are working up experience and clocking up the skills necessary to become _braiimasters _in their own right. Below the tong master is the _boerie-layer_, the second-lowest member of the braiierarchy, who lays fresh raw meat upon the braii, assessing where it should go and how it should be laid for optimum cooking efficiency. Lowest of all is the _forkmaster, _a novice junior male whose job it is merely to prick sausages with a fork so as to prevent their bursting - a cardinal offence - and enhance their proper cooking. His lowly status is marked by the fact that the braii shuffle _always_ puts him where the smoke and fumes are being blown.

All four move smoothly around the grill in what is called the _braii shuffle_, a ritual dance punctuated by synchronised swigs of beer from the bottle, at the braiimaster's exclusive discretion. The braii shuffle is also used tactically to exclude outsiders who are not part of the braiierarchy from intruding - such as foreigners, (even Australians) and women. This is a social faux pas. A minor triumph, such as successfully deterring an English visitor or a woman from entering the circle, is celebrated with a ritual swig of beer.

Uniquely in a society like South Africa, _braii _and _tongmasters_ are white males and the active participation of women is frowned upon. Women are expected to refrain from comment or active involvement, although they might graciously be permitted to pour drinks.

**(2) **_All _South African men regard themselves as alpha males. But the _**braii **_sorts out the men from the boys. South African women just tolerantly let them get on with it.

**(3)** _Mealiepap_ is always, by iron convention, served at a braii. Nobody knows why this is so as nobody is ever seen eating it. It's tradition, possibly harking back to the basic trail ration of the _boertrekkers. _It might be best thought of as an Afrikaaner take on the concept of dwarf bread - something to keep you going on a long arduous trek in the wilderness. Only a Pessimal would eat and enjoy it, much to the amused consternation of his hosts. **(4)**

**(4) **The event had been Cultural, at the Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy on Scoone Avenue. The Duke of Ankh had been sent an invitation. However, the Duchess of Ankh had put her foot down at the thought of Sam Vimes being let loose at an event revolving around consuming huge amounts of processed meat with minimal lettuce and tomato. Lady Sybil considered this akin to a monkey being given the captaincy of a banana boat. Vimes, reluctantly, had to plead Watch duties and pass his ticket over to a senior officer who would represent the Watch. As Carrot was unavailable, the ticket was passed down the hierarchy to Inspector Pessimal, who had duly represented the Duke and the Watch. The Embassy's black servants, given light duties for the evening, had watched the big _baas-fella_, the ambassador, assuming the coveted role of _braiimaster_ with interest and amusement. It wasn't often they got to watch white men cheerfully performing the sort of menial work normally passed down the line to blecks.

**(5)** Ponder is referencing the uncomfortable (for Biblical Creationists) fact that human beings and chimpanzees have 97% identical DNA.

**(6) **See my story _**The Lancre Caper**_. Even the **best** stealth archaeologist can come unstuck in Lancre.

* * *

><p><em><strong>bonus lyric:<strong>_

Jethro Tull,

_**"Bungle In The Jungle"**_

Walking through forests of palm tree apartments -  
>scoff at the monkeys who live in their dark tents<br>down by the waterhole - drunk every Friday -  
>eating their nuts - saving their raisins for Sunday.<br>Lions and tigers who wait in the shadows -  
>they're fast but they're lazy, and sleep in green meadows.<p>

Let's bungle in the jungle - well, that's all right by me.  
>I'm a tiger when I want love,<br>but I'm a snake if we disagree.

Just say a word and the boys will be right there:  
>with claws at your back to send a chill through the night air.<br>Is it so frightening to have me at your shoulder?  
>Thunder and lightning couldn't be bolder.<br>I'll write on your tombstone, ``I thank you for dinner.''  
>This game that we animals play is a winner.<p>

Let's bungle in the jungle - well, that's all right by me.  
>I'm a tiger when I want love,<br>but I'm a snake if we disagree.

The rivers are full of crocodile nasties  
>and He who made kittens put snakes in the grass.<br>He's a lover of life but a player of pawns -  
>yes, the King on His sunset lies waiting for dawn<br>to light up His Jungle  
>as play is resumed.<br>The monkeys seem willing to strike up the tune.


	7. Snuffing out, 5: Wider Ripples

**The Howondaland Incident – new part!**

_Carrying on where I left off where a major international incident is brewing in Darkest Howondaland following the discovery of the slave goblin farm in** Snuff. **A humanitarian** (1) **and diplomatic mission from Ankh-Morpork is shortly to be nutmegged between two opposing armies from countries who profoundly dislike each other, slap-bang on top of a disputed border. Keeping the peace is complicated by a secret mission to track down and deal with the people thought responsible for establishing the farm. Yet again, the City Watch and the Guild of Assassins discover their interests converge, or at least overlap. Sam Vimes and Lord Downey having been left behind in the City, co-operation and liaison is down to people who can be more _pragmatic_ about these things._

_First, we step back in time by a year or two..._

_**The Guild of Assassins, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork.**_

The run-up to the Final Run was always a busy administrative and planning time for the Guild teaching staff. Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who had invigilated her first Run the year before and now had a better idea of what to expect (**2),** was busy reading through the personal files of the Upper Sixth students who would be Raven House's candidates for the Run, and preparing confidential reports for the examiners. She also had a stack of references, queries, notes and reports to tackle concerning other students she had taught. Even though she had taught these students for seven years and knew all their strengths, weaknesses and aptitudes, this was still an exercise that required concentration and time.

Therefore she was not pleased when a diffident knock on her office door announced one of the porters on gate duty.

"Mr Meroon?" she said, frowning. Maroon recognised the body language: _Whatever this is, make it quick. _He swallowed, and said:

"An, errr, _student_ wishes to see you, miss."

"Tell them it's going to have to wait. Ag, I told them all thet I em not to be disturbed unless the Guild is on fire, or under etteck!"

"Perhaps... errr.. you _should _see this student, miss." Maroon said, deferentially.

Johanna studied his face; she was sensitive enough to read _harrassed and otherwise responsible employee forced into difficult situation and hoping to avoid being shouted at or worse_. She calmed herself. There would be a good reason for this. Or Maroon would have diplomatically told the student to go _voetsaak_.

"Who is this student, Mr Meroon?"

Maroon told her. Johanna grimaced as her memories provided her with face, an attitude, frequent disagreements, and ongoing friction going back a full seven... no, _eight_... years now. Some students are hard to love. Her memory went back nearly a year to the exact circumstances that meant she would have to drop everything, and deal with this as a priority. She sighed.

"You did the correct thing, Mr Meroon. Thenk you. Edvise the student she may come end see me. Please elso edvise the Mester? Lord Downey will need to know."

Johanna breathed deeply as Mr Maroon withdrew. Outside, his voice began

"Miss Smith Rhodes has said you may..."

It was cut off as a bedraggled, rather shabby, but very determined, figure bowled in, knocking Mr Maroon slightly off balance, without knocking. The figure was wearing what might, a very long time before, have begun as formal and stylish Assassin dress. Its wearer radiated extreme self-certainty and a complete belief in her right to be there and to be heard. Johanna recognised her, but scowled stonily.

"Leave my office." she said, curtly. "Close the door. Epologise to Mr Maroon for your discourtesy. Then you will _knock _first, end wait for me to invite you in. The circumstences, Miss Rust, do _not _excuse discourtesy. Thenk you."

Johanna looked down meaningfully at the sea of paperwork. Then she looked up again.

"You are _still_ here, Miss Rust?" she said, pointedly. "You are still a student. I em still your Housemistress. You will bleddy well do es I direct. Thenk you."

Johanna took advantage of the brief , sullen, exit to go to the filing cabinet and search her student records under "R". She ignored the first knock as she extracted a file, then made Miss Rust wait until she was again seated.

"_Komm!_" she commanded. Vondalaans and Morporkian shared some common words. She knew this particular student would hear the spin and be offended that she was being summoned in imperious monosyllables by the baas-lady, as if she were some beastly black-skinned servant. _Gut. _

Johanna did not invite Lucinda Rust to sit. She also took her time in speaking. Lucinda haughtily drew the remnant of her Guild uniform around her. It was dirty and tattered. Some attempt had been made to repair the more obvious gashes, tears, and splits. Johanna noted that the boots were still in relatively good condition and that the girl's obvious weapons were commendably well-tended and in good order. She gave Lucinda a grudging mark for having the right priorities. She also noted that her pupil was heavily suntanned and looked as if she had lost a lot of weight. _ As she might well be. She was dumped on the far coast of Howondaland to make her own unassisted way back to the Guild within a year. Which she has managed. _

"Es I sit here end prepare for this year's Final Exemination," Johanna began, "I see thet there is a little unfinished business from lest year thet needs to be discharged."

She opened the file on The Honourable Miss Lucinda Rust, which recorded her seven years at the Assassins' Guild School. The unprecedented eighth year was represented by reports paper-clipped together, with a set of summary instructions right at the top.

"Let us recepitulate. You commenced your Final Run lest summer end got no further than the selective module thet vectored you through the garden of Ramkin Manor. This wes a new form of prectical test thet was introduced to essess your ebility to escape end evade the City Watch. Sir Samuel Vimes was keen to co-operate, es he could then pit the wits of his Watchmen against student essessins. We all learnt a lot thet night."

Johanna smiled at the proud scarecrow standing opposite her. Lucinda was breathing deeply, as if restraining her anger, but said nothing. She glared resentment and rancour at the Guild teacher who currently represented a year of additional indignity, privation, and complete discomfort. Johanna caught the _Somebody is going to pay for this!_ in her body language, and suppressed a contented grin. Seven years of Lucinda Rust had made her teachers callous and unsympathetic in return.

"But you got no further than this. You wounded one Watchman end would have mortally wounded another, save that somebody else hed beaten you to it thirty years ego. Zombies are herd to inhume, Miss Rust. I would say impossible to kill, es they are elready dead. Konstabel Shoe complained bitterly et the new holes you put in his breastplate. The Watch detained you. You were then, eventuelly, offered a different chence to quelify es a full Licensed Essessin. A new way of pessing your Final Exemination."

Johanna smiled, briefly.

"You were deposited on an unknown stretch of the Howondalandian Coast and told thet you now hed to make it beck to the Guild within a year end a day end to report to me es your Housemistress."

Johanna found the thing she was looking for in the file and reached for a pen. She signed the pink slip.

"You hev suceeded in thet tesk. I will report your success to the Guild Mester, who I believe will be pleased to offer you a sherry."

She passed the pink slip to Lucinda, noting the girl's eyes blazing for an instant with vindication.

Lucinda looked at her pass certificate.

"You have only signed it as a _provisional_ pass?" she said, incredulous. Her voice was indignant, as if she felt she could have expected more.

"_Ja."_ Johanna said. "One thing remains. You succeeded in crossing Howondaland end Kletch, end returning to the Guild within the egreed time period. I deduce thet you raced straight here from the Docks without returning home to be re-united with your femily. Nor indeed to change clothes. Nor even to _bathe_."

By the smell, Lucinda had negociated passage home on a fishing trawler. It was beginning to _pervade._ But Johanna knew when to ease up.

"Thet was not meant es insult. I em pleased, end somewhat in edmiration of your achievement. Your ettitude displays commendeble single-minded resolution end epplication to success in the contrect you were offered."

Johanna took a deep breath, not believing she was saying this to a Rust.

"On behalf of Raven House, end es one who taught you, I em _proud _of you."

Lucinda looked momentarily surprised. But Johanna appeared sincere. Her former teacher smiled again.

"The lest tesk I require of you es a student. You are to go away end you are to write a full eccount of your journey through Howondaland. I will read end epprove it. It will then be lodged in the Black Library for the guidance of others who will follow you. Then I will be pleased to cross out the word "provisional" on your pess certificate. But you are now, with this lest provision, a fully licenced Essessin."

Johanna did not remind Lucinda that a newly graduated student could legitimately go onto first-name terms with her former teacher. Therefore she did not correct a grudging "Thank you, Miss Smith-Rhodes".

"Lord Downey will wish to meet you. But he will understand if you first return home to bathe end change clothes. I will authorise a cab for you, et Guild expense."

Johanna courteously held the door open. Lucinda swept out, managing to look haughty, tired and grateful all at once.

Trying to ignore the lingering smell. Johanna returned to her paperwork.

_Well, what happens next? _she thought.

* * *

><p>And now, some time later, Johanna was standing in her native Howondaland again, pleased to be Home, but aware that it had been the Rust family who were ultimately responsible for bringing her here. As afternoon turned into evening, she smelt the bush-pig cooking over a firepit, idly registered the fact she was getting hungry, and surveyed the scene on the former slave-farm. The noises of the jungle came to her ears like an old familiar piece of music. Scratching and digging sounds were especially loud on the day's breeze, blown in from the nearby coast.<p>

"I put your request to the goblins." Inspector Pessimal said to her, with quiet diffidence. "I was worried that it would sound like enslaving them again, but they were unanimous they would do it willingly as free Goblins."

"Thenk you." she said, sincerely.

"Professor Stibbons and the, ah, _air policewomen_, are at work devising alarms and signals. Our two Feegle pilots are flying a reconnaissance mission even as we speak. Miss N'Kweze reports that she and Miss Band are about to go on a familiarisation patrol to the Rimwards, and she suggests you might wish to escort Miss Wiggs to the Hubwards. Our _guests_ are at work preparing food. I have suggested they also prepare standard rations of food and water for issue to the _prisoners_. Miss Jolson will act as guard and escort. I suggest our guests are re-issued their weapons for this duty."

Pessimal meant the two Matabele soldiers they had captured. Knowing the two Watch witches had ensured their compliance – you can run, but not _escape_, from an irritated magic user – Johanna grinned and gave permission. Running only made the chase longer with the same end result. The two native guests had expressed a willingness to defer the just wrath of the witches by serving them faithfully in all things.

"Thenk you, Mr Pessimal." Johanna said,, sincerely, and went to find Jocasta Wiggs.

"We're off." she said, as Jocasta looked up expectantly. "Let us check weapons end equipment."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Extract from "My Journey Through Howondaland and Klatch", by The Honourable Miss Lucinda Rust, Raven House (Licenced Graduate Assassin).<strong>_

INSERT EXTRACT DEALING WITH "FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE JUNGLE INTERIOR"

The voyage was in _decidedly inferior _conditions for one of my social standing. Captain Jenkins was unhelpful and unsympathetic and refused to upgrade my accomodation. I distinctly heard him muttering that he was going to go back to that insolent jumped-up thief-taker Vimes and demand more "nuisance money" for having to deal with me. I took umbrage with Jenkins' attitude and demeanour and asked him to reflect on how much power and influence Daddy has in the City, and that it was in his best interests that he treated me in accordance with my social rank and standing. Jenkins was most uncivil. I copy his words here with a deep sense of anger, resentment, and a desire they should be recorded for posterity as evidence of his base nature and insolence to his social betters.

"Oh, yeah?" he said. "Daddy should reflect that his import-export revenue depends on this mercantile fleet's goodwill and the work of the Guild of Sailors. If we blacklist his business, he _could_ try building a Fleet of his own, I suppose. And for the record, Your Ladyship, the last Assassin Mr Vimes asked us to deliver to Howondaland was a _lot_ more civil company than you. Young Mr Bassingly-Gore accepted we had a job to do, he was civil and polite, he even put in a hand's turn helping in the rigging and working around the ship, and we all liked having him aboard. A good young lad, Eustace. But _you_, m'lady, I cannot wait to deliver you to where you're going!"

I returned to the filthy and menial cabin I had been alloted and began counting the moments until we landed. There was nothing else to do. The _cheek_ of the man, suggesting I alleviated the tedium of the voyage by finding menial work to do aboard his filthy rat-infested cabbage-stinking ship!

* * *

><p><em>The Embassy of Rimwards Howondaland, Ankh-Morpork.<em>

Pieter van der Graaf read the report again and groaned, almost inaudibly. It had returned from Howondaland marvellously quickly via the means Vetinari had smoothly declined to disclose. Pieter strongly suspected this was the same means that had allowed him to smoothly and quickly insert what the devious Patrician described as "a humanitarian and diplomatic mission" to furnish immediate and necessary relief to the liberated slaves discovered to have been exported to the continent. It had not escaped the Ambassador's notice that the humanitarian assistance had included a significant number of Assassins and Watchmen – representatives of two of the most formidable problem-solving agencies at Vetinari's disposal. One of which was backed with a name that provoked fear and respect around the Disc. The other of which was made up of Guild of Assassins members.

The fact that Vetinari was now capable of inserting – and supporting - armed forces around the Disc, at any point he chose, at a moment's notice, was not lost on van der Graaf. And he did not know the mechanism involved, although he strongly suspected it was a sort of formidable magic. Reliable magic. Magic that worked. He needed to know this so as to report Home. Pratoria would be getting nervous. But this wasn't his immediate concern. This was the fact a slave farm had been established, in his country, under the nose of his government, and had pitilessly worked captive goblins to death. It was inhuman, unethical, abhorrent. And very bad public relations for his nation. Apartheid might not be perfect as a social system, but at least the blecks got paid for their labour, were allowed adequate rest and free association, and as often as not were kindly treated by their employers. Strict laws governed the way the ruling white race might treat the blecks. Even now, he knew, his opposite numbers at the Zulu and Matabele Embassies would be sighing sorrowfully and saying things like _Oh, Pieter is a good man and I'm not denying there can be good people in White Howondaland. But with a social system like apartheid, can you be surprised it tips over into outright slavery? I'm just surprised this sort of thing hasn't happened before. And what __**else **__might be going on in Rimwards Howondaland that hasn't been exposed yet? _

And the goblins, a hitherto disregarded race who even when regarded were treated with contempt, a race hitherto unknown in Howondaland, were being elevated, on the back of powerful public sentiment and sudden friends in high places, to the status of humans, trolls and dwarfs – a fully sentient species who enjoyed the full protection of the Law and such civil rights as were extended to humans. How Home would view this was not known, but if Vetinari wanted it, Rimwards Howondaland would be forced to follow, however reluctantly. Van der Graaf speculated that in his country, they might get the racial status of _honorary coloureds_ – below the white race, but above the black. Trolls, where encountered, were classified thus. Dwarfs got _honorary white_ status – not human, but humanoid enough to have generally white skins. He sighed. Apartheid law was complex in a multi-species society.

"Ah well. What are my strengths here?" he said to himself. He looked down at the report again. _Johanna. _She'd written a short, informative and no doubt accurate report for his eyes only. Vetinari had handed it over, sealed, with an assurance that it had not been intercepted or tampered with in any way. Van der Graaf believed this. He also had an uneasy suspicion that without even looking, Vetinari knew _exactly _what information his niece had provided for him. There was no need for him to open or intercept it. He would, damn him, _know. _

Again he groaned slightly. Being an Ambassador in Ankh-Morpork was prestigious, admittedly, but certainly not _easy._ Frijda, attuned to his needs, walked softly over and stood behind him, resting her hands on his upper back and shoulder. He appreciated this.

"Johanna's report?" she said.

"Ja. She assures me the problem is our country's to deal with. The situation is grave, certainly. But not impossible. A few small ideas present themselves for my consideration."

He hummed gratefully as his wife massaged his shoulders and neck.

"There can be no doubt?" Frijda asked. "No error?"

"None whatsoever. Pessimal is a very precise investigator. And we know Ponder Stibbons is a very capable and conscientious young man. They will have taken pains in their calculation. Vetinari chose well. It appears the people behind the slaving were cunning in their choice of location. It is a place practically on the disputed border with the Matabele into which neither our soldiers, nor theirs, may officially go without risking war. It is remote. Few people live there. Were it not for Vimes, this could have gone unremarked for many years. I am considering what to put into my report for Pratoria. There is also a question of how it can get there soonest. Even the ruinous cost of sending a courier on the Klatchian carpet service means it would take anything up to four days."

"Ponder is such a nice boy, isn't he?" Frijda remarked, picking out of the conversation what was most important to her. "Johanna has chosen a fine young man. I really hope they will not delay in starting a family."

Pieter smiled. His wife's grasp of political reality was tenuous. But she was, in so many ways, the perfect ambassadorial consort. He greatly appreciated her personal skills and relaxed into the massage.

"He is admirable. And strongly favoured as a future Arch-Chancellor. Mustrum knows this, and is grooming him to one day take over. He will be an asset to our nation. A friend in a high place."

Pieter felt a subtle change in the movement of her fingers that signified disapproval.

"And of course to our wider family." he hastily added.

"Ankh-Morpork has insinuated a lot of people into our country." Frijda said, uneasily. "They have not been invited. Will this cause trouble?"

"A century ago this provoked a bleddy war." Pieter replied. "But this time the Morporkians have not landed an army and have no intention of seeking to subjugate us. My report to Pratoria will detail the situation and very strongly urge that we accredit our guests with diplomatic status. I believe their intentions are noble. Well, noble by Vetinari's standards. The Bureau of Foreign Affairs should extend a somewhat retrospective invitation to enter our nation. Just to _regularise_ the situation. And given the Windhoek Treaty, it will serve both ourselves and the dratted Matabeles if a third party investigates the situation and reports back fairly and fully to both governments. Johanna is possibly the ideal person to represent our nation, and her presence does not breach the Treaty as she is there as a civilian..." he paused, as a thought struck him.

"Dear, would you send a secretary to locate Colonel Breytenbach and ask if he can spare me ten minutes, at his convenience? Thank you. Also... at this moment I need Verkramp, Gods help me. His agents have got to be useful for _something_."

Verkramp was the Embassy's political officer, the acknowledged spy-in-residence. Most of the time he was a liability and an embarrassment. But his agents and contacts had been out, watching. And were reporting back. Breytenbach was his military attaché. Who _also_ had contacts and people out watching. And would be useful for another little service the Ambassador had in mind.

Pieter van der Graaf leant back and relaxed as his wife went to find an Embassy underling to relay his instructions. Ideas were now forming. He just needed to consult a couple of people. Then he could write his report and request an audience with Vetinari.

* * *

><p>Johanna Smith-Rhodes placed a hand on Jocasta's shoulder. Jocasta paused, taking in the cool green light filtering down through the jungle canopy, and tried to transfer her Assassin skills to this almost wholly alien place. Johanna had expressed regret that she had thus far not been able to take any students on Jungle Survival expeditions.<strong>(3)<strong> Jocasta was therefore getting the sort of intense in-at-the-deep-end training she needed, _very quickly. _

They crouched again, mysterious sounds all around, as Johanna pointed to something Jocasta had taken to be just another creeper of native vegetation that draped across their path. Her flesh crawled as the creeper raised an arrow-shaped head and a long forked tongue flickered out. Johanna mimed the action of jaws opening and closing, using her fingers and thumb, then mimed a throat-cutting action with her index finger followed by a theatrical grimace. Assassin sign language could be pretty direct. They waited for the serpent to slither off into the dense undergrowth, then moved on. Jocasta winced and redoubled her focus.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Extract from "My Journey Through Howondaland and Klatch", by The Honourable Miss Lucinda Rust, Raven House (Licenced Graduate Assassin).<strong>_

The base rogue Jenkins lowered a boat to convey me to the Howondalandian interior. I was thoroughly pleased to be free of his company, and that of his ill-mannered, insolent and leering crew. Even though my presence aboard ship served to raise the social tone of the vessel by many orders of magnitude, something those gutter-raised matelots should have _appreciated _a lot more, they seemed universally pleased to be rid of me. Therefore the feeling was mutual. I was also most pleased to be released from the monotonous and only barely edible ship's diet.

The climate was most hot and humid and oppressive, and I was most displeased that Bosun Scoplett refused to return me my Assassin equipment until I was safely on shore. Indeed, he threw the sack roughly at me as his boat went into an abrupt and very fast reverse, leaving me standing knee-deep in the water with abrupt instructions to _keep walking inland, my lady. _

I wished the fast-departing SS Milka a suitable _Gods-Speed,_ as is appropriate on these occasions, as a noble-born person should not wish storm, sinking, or encounter with a Kraken, on _any_ vessel (as ships are of value and must belong to somebody of social standing who would be inconvenienced by their loss) and considered my location and options. I re-armed myself, noted with distaste that Jenkins had seen fit to include several days worth of those disgusting ship's provisions such as salt pork and a form of hard-tack biscuit sharing many of the characteristics of common dwarf bread, but respected that a large water-skin had been included. At least this could be refilled with cleaner water when I located it. Cannot a ship's captain eat better rations than the common sailor, who knows no better and would view ship's provender (squalid though it is ) as fine dining, compared to the unspeakable things consumed by the gutter-folk of Morpork from whence they spring? And why can he not share superior rations with a honoured and paying noble guest drawn from his social superiors? This was most unsatisfactory. Father will be hearing of this.

Considering my options, I reasoned that rivers and streams must flow to the sea and bring clean water with them. I also reasoned that as I was on the coast of Howondaland looking to the Hubwards, and had passed through Cape Terror some days previously (the sailors had been full of superstitious trepidation) then somewhere over to my left would be the relatively civilised country of Rimwards Howondaland. Father has friends and business contacts there and was considering buying a summer home, having heard good report about the docility and cheap availability of black servants who are trained not give cheek or insolence in the manner of white-skinned peasants in and around Ankh. If I could only reach a settlement such as Piemburg, Joburg or Pratoria, I could make contact with friends of Father's, and arrange safe and comfortable passage Home so as to meet the conditions of my exile and belatedly qualify as an Assassin. _And then somebody would pay for this indignity! _

Buoyed up with new hope and a sense of purpose, I set out along the Coast, in a Hubwards-by-Turnwise direction, seeking Rimwards Howondaland and recognisable civilisation.

* * *

><p>Johanna and Jocasta worked steadily along a patrol beat that encompassed the Hubwards side of the tobacco plantation. They had begun at the coast, just to the Hubwards of the loading pier that had been built to service Gravid Rust's visiting ship, and had moved silently and purposefully into the deeper jungle. Jocasta was learning quickly about jungle fieldcraft, and had thus far counted six different potentially lethal perils which Johanna had explained to her. She was in no doubt there would be more. Even before considering human inhabitants of the jungle. Johanna had paused at strategically significant places on the trail, and the two had set up some rather more mundane traps and alarms than those proposed by Ponder Stibbons and the two witches. Some devices had been flown in at Johanna's request from Assassins' Guild stores. Others were rather more <em>improvised. <em>Jocasta had shuddered, and diligently ensured these were marked, using the sort of very subtle warnings known to the Guild and in Johanna's case, to the Howondalandian Special Forces. Finally, they moved on to the area where they had agreed they would rendezvous with Ruth and Alice. The two patrols would confer. Johanna would then take Alice round the Hubwards patrol route to familiarise her and show her where the traps were. Alice, Jocasta recalled, taught about Common Traps. No doubt Miss Band would improvise a few of her own. But she, Jocasta, was then to patrol with Ruth and learn the Rimwards approaches as well as the Zulu approach to jungle fighting. Then back to base for dinner...

* * *

><p>"It is a correct thing to do, sir, and wholly justifiable in the circumstances." Breytenbach advised the Ambassador. "This person served in the armed forces and is an officer of the reserve. And is loyal to the Staadt, and has been a Liutnant for nearly eleven years. They have taken every opportunity to keep their weapons and fighting skills sharp, they have proven leadership skills, and such a thing would be almost inevitable, even for a reserve officer."<p>

Colonel Breytenbach signed the promotion orders.

"As Ambassador, supported by my Military Attaché, I may authorise a field promotion for a capable officer. I regret that the circumstances mean you cannot promote beyond the rank of Major. However, I will send copies of this promotion order to the Bureau of Defence, and add the strong reccomendation that they not only ratify this, they go beyond this conditional promotion and advance this candidate to the rank of Kolonel."

Breytenbach provided a set of Major's rank badges for cuffs and epaulettes. They glinted, black-enameled and brass.

"No doubt your niece will paint them completely matt black." the colonel observed.

"Indeed, Wim." the ambassador agreed. "She will remain a Major of the Reserve and to all intents and purposes a current civilian who just happens to be an army reservist. This will not breach the Treaty's strict and finely worded clauses. But it gives Johanna a little more status if she encounters troops of our Army. A Major may advance ideas to a Kolonel in a way a mere Liutnant cannot. And promotion reminds her she is also a citizen of our Republik and must think of its national interests. Look upon it as additional insurance against a conflict of interests. Although she is sensible and knows how these games are played."

Breytenbach looked at his Ambassador. He was a powerful, shaven-headed, bull of a man without too much visible neck. But he wasn't stupid.

"Sir, it occurs to me..."

"Ja?" the Ambassador said, invitingly.

"Advancing Johanna to the rank of kolonel. This means she may then legitimately assume command of a full _regiment._ The commission also bestows the right to _raise_ a full regiment. With loyal bleck auxiliaries. Err..."

Van der Graaf saw the point. He briefly contemplated Johanna Smith-Rhodes in command of a small army. He smiled, as if the implications had only just occurred to him.

"Then I'm certain Kolonel Smith-Rhodes will lead her troops sensibly, efficiently, and above all _loyally_." he reassured his subordinate. "But for now, she is merely a Major. Thank you for your co-operation, Wim. Find Verkramp for me, will you?"

* * *

><p>And some thirty miles to the Hubwards of the Morporkian party, another Army patrol was setting out, led, at least nominally, by a painfully young <em>Liutnant. <em>His commanding _Kolonel _had genially laid out the terms of engagement for him and left him in no doubt of the importance of the mission, the need for clear and accurate observation, and the dire consequences of getting it wrong, up to and including provoking a bleddy war with the _verdammte_ Matabele.

"You've got a sergeant with thirty years experience, and three good troopers with up-country knowledge. It'll be a stroll on the veldt, Julian. Wish I was a _liutnant _with no cares so I could go myself!"

"And I get the political." Julian had reminded him.

"Ag, the political officer." the Kolonel had said. For a moment his big, bluff, Rimwards Howondalandian _bonhomie _had slipped and he had the good grace to look a little bit shifty.

"Listen, those bastards at BOSS are getting twitchy." the Kolonel said, lowering his voice. "They're getting reports. Some sort of activity in the demilitarised zone. Ships coming and going. Unidentified people. _Activity._

And you know as well as I do that when BOSS gets the runs, _everybody's_ arsehole twitches!"

Julian winced slightly.

"And as the nearest outpost of civilisation, we've been ordered to investigate. But _covertly. _And BOSS want an agent along. You've got to manage him, Julian. You and Sergeant Thjiessman both. Don't fail me."

Julian sighed, was dismissed, and gathered his first independent kommando together to brief them. Sitting in a loose circle on the ground outside the command tent, he became aware of a commotion. Men were pointing upwards and looking up in surprise.

"What in the seven Hells of Sto Kerrig is _that_?" somebody demanded.

Julian wasn't sure: it looked like a flying horse. With wings. But at that height it was hard to be certain. Was that a _woman_ riding it?

"Never seen one of those before." Thjiessman reflected. He passed the telescope to Julian for a closer look. "But then, there are _osibisi_.**(4)** So where there are _osibisi_ there may also be flying horses."

"Just do not stand underneath them." Julian muttered. The girl was young, well, young-ish, and wore a pointy hat. A fragment of lore from the old mother continent came to him. About women who wore pointy hats. He frowned. A _toverheks. _A witch. But weren't they meant to be much, much, older than that? He watched the witch make several slow circuits of the camp, taking her time, then she flew off again to the Hubwards. _Where the strange incidents are. _

"They say the _heksen_ go where they please, sir." Sergeant Thjiessman remarked. "And that you don't anger them." He paused. Thjiessman had nearly thirty years experience of soldiering and warfare. Not much could scare him. But he was a Boor of stolid parentage going all the way back to Sto Kerrig, on the Central Continent. Some terrible folk-memories persisted. Over centuries. "Probably unrelated, sir. On business of her own."

"We hope." the young officer said. "Get the men ready, sergeant. We're moving out."

* * *

><p><em>the Embassy, Ankh-Morpork<em>

"I see." the Ambassador said. "Your agents have been observing the Patrician's Palace, Pseudopolis Yard, and the Guild of Assassins. Periodically, the large white flying horses belonging to the Watch have been observed taking to the air, often up to four times daily, carrying passengers and panniers of equipment. They are accompanied by smaller birds of prey, also of the Watch, under the control of the _verdammte_ Feegle. Lately, they have taken to the air towing tethered flying carpets, laden with boxes, sacks and bundles."

"Which I believe contain military equipment." the weasel-like Liutnant Verkramp added. "Somehow this is ending up being illegally imported into our nation to support the military force planted there by Vetinari."

"We have not yet established a definite link, Verkramp." Van der Graaf reminded him. "Continue."

"The pegasii are observed to climb to a great height escorted by the birds. Then according to my agents, they somehow appear to fly _sideways_ and dissapear. One of my agents succeeded in seeing one of the creatures come back into existence several thousand feet above the Palace. Out of nowhere. Its load had vanished."

"Hmmm." said the Ambassador. "The crates and the boxes could be legitimate medical and relief supplies. My niece got a report back to me to assure me that in her opinion, the work being carried out is legitimate. You are aware she is on the spot, Verkramp? You may report so to your superiors."

"Sir. May I recommend that Pratoria be alerted immediately to this incursion? Vetinari is up to no good..."

"I will decide, Verkramp. A report is being prepared. I will ensure it arrives Home with the greatest possible speed. Continue to do what you are best at, which is observing. _Dankie_."

Alone again, the Ambassador bent to writing his report. He believed he now knew the method of speedy flight between the Central Continent and Howondaland. He mentally rehearsed an argument to put before Vetinari. A moment or two later, he reflected that it would be wise to ask Frijda to prepare an overnight bag. He hadn't been Home in _years_...

* * *

><p><em><strong>Extract from "My Journey Through Howondaland and Klatch", by The Honourable Miss Lucinda Rust, Raven House (Licenced Graduate Assassin).<strong>_

Some beastly creature that looked like a flying elephant, improbable though that seems, darkened the sky above my head. I had enough common sense to dive and roll to the side, but was still spattered with foul matter which added insult to prior insult. I considered bringing it down with a crossbow but reflected it was too large and the bolts too small. I was also aware of a need to conserve stocks of available ammunition.

As I progressed to the Turnwise direction, I became aware I was not alone. I could not see any observers but heard drums pounding in the distance. This racket became incessant and infernal on my ears, and I considered it wiser to leave the beach and fight a way through the jungle. This necessarily restricted my speed but allowed ample option for concealment. I fitted the sword bayonet to my crossbow, as I recalled Father saying that the natives cannot abide the taste of cold naked steel and shrink from it.

Soon, I began to spy natives. Many of them, all male, moving in the deeper jungle. They were easy after a while to spot and evade, but were present in such numbers that my evasion of them took me further and further away from a Turnwise direction, and thus further from the safety of the Rimwards Howondaland border. It all began to get very tiresome. And those wretched drums never stopped, not even **once**!

* * *

><p><strong>(1) <strong>Or whatever the word "humanitarian" would be if applied to goblins.

**(2) **Refer to my story **_The Graduation Class_**. This bit of the tale tidies up a necessary dangling loose end and provides essential backstory.

**(3) **Described as _Nature Trails _by her more cynical students. Johanna's nature trails were indeed educative to student Assassins concerning the rich and plentiful bounty provided by Nature.

**(4)** An_ osibisi_ is a creature believed to have escaped from Mono Island, home of the God of Evolution, to have established an ecological niche for itself in the jungle fastnesses and mountains of Howondaland. Building eyries in very tall and necessarily sturdy trees, or else in otherwise inaccessible mountain places, this comparatively rare and elusive creature may be seen in majestic (if ponderous) flight over the jungles and veldt. Known to Howondalandians as the _Schiessvolifant _and the _Stannieonderebeeste, _it lives out its days perfectly happily with no known predators save for the Surface To Air Ballistic Shark, which is only a problem near the coast. The mating flight of an Osibisi Queen is something to behold – except from directly underneath, hence its Vondalaans names. As for the aerodynamic efficiency of a large flying elephant with scaled-up insect wings – ask the God of Evolution, who really only wanted a delivery system for dung to nurture his insect creation.


	8. Snuffing out, 6: the Heart of Darkness

**Darkest Howondaland Incident – new part!**

_Carrying on where I left off, where a major international incident is brewing in Darkest Howondaland following the discovery of the slave goblin farm in** Snuff. ** Political machinations in Ankh-Morpork and elsewhere now begin to impinge upon our heroines – and heroes - who are not to remain undisturbed much longer. New complications, some on a rather more personal level, beset Johanna Smith-Rhodes, informal commander of the military side of the relief force sent out to Howondaland by Vetinari. Johanna also makes her bed, with every intention of lying in it. _

_We also get to read a little bit more of how Lucinda Rust completely failed to appreciate or indeed understand Howondaland, despite spending an exciting gap year there at the end of her formal studies at the Assassins' Guild School. Extracts from her diaries and her account of her travels will from now on be annotated and footnoted by critical readers who accessed it in the Black Library._

* * *

><p><em>The former slave farm in Howondaland, early evening. <em>

"Thank you, Officer Romanoff." Inspector Pessimal said, making the final note on his copy of her report. "Miss Smith-Rhodes will find this most informative on her return from patrol. I understand you and Officer Politek will be returning to the city soon with despatches, inessential personnel, and reports for His Lordship and others?"

"When she gets back." Olga said, scanning the Hubwards skyline with a mixture of impatience and anxiety. "She's not overdue yet. Maybe she got delayed."

"Well, we have time to eat." Pessimal said. "Supper is almost ready."

Olga nodded, and resumed scanning the Hubwards sky. Air users got _worried _if their fellows were delayed in returning from flight patrols. Especially in combat zones. The science of air fighting was in its infancy on the Disc; Irena and Olga were among the first witches to have exchanged hostilities in the third dimension of the air.** (1)** And Irena was at least forty-five minutes past her estimated time of return.

"It'll be dark soon. We really need to get away before then. _Where the Hell is she?"_

* * *

><p>Irena Politek had flown to the Hubwards. Her briefing was to look for signs of large bodies of black soldiers on the move, and to learn what she could through the thick jungle cover. Taking careful note of landmarks and keeping the sea coast to her left, she crossed her fingers that she could locate the camp again. She and Olga had agreed that in the event of difficulties, Ponder Stibbons would fire a bright orange fireball into the sky as a device to home in on. It should be visible from a long way away over the tops of the jungle trees.<p>

Settling into the beating rhythm of her pegasus' wings, she settled down to watch the strange beauty of the dark green forest pass by underneath. Occasional animal sounds rose to her ears. Out of hard-learned habit, she checked the sky every few minutes. _Beware the Elf at your back. _Elves flying yarrow-stalks were not unknown and if they made it into Discworld skies, they would ambush unwary flyers for the delight of it. Irena never flew without a loaded crossbow. Her quarrels had very solid and above all _pointy_ iron heads. She also kept watch for what she thought would be a more likely hazard in these skies, Klatchian flying carpets. There was no war between Ankh-Morpork and Klatch – official accounts stressed there had only ever been a _misunderstanding. _But even so, Irena and Olga had rehearsed air-fighting tactics against carpets, and stunted their broomsticks to the limit in mock-fight against carpets owned by the city. The Klatchians would have used a military carpet fleet to command the skies over Ankh-Morpork and deliver elite troops for shock attacks. Informed intelligence said that while most magic carpets had been handed over to civil use, Klatch still maintained the nucleus of a trained combat air force. Vetinari himself had asked the Air Police to come up with countermeasures.

_And when the Klatchians learnt Ankh-Morpork had an active presence here, they'd want to investigate for themselves..._

She shrugged off a thought about how even a couple of minutes in the company of Lord Vetinari made you start to think politically. What was down there... _ah!_

She steered the pegasus lower, taking time for a final check of the skies around her. Johanna had advised her that some Howondalandian witch-doctors had the power of flight. She hadn't been able to add much, as her knowledge was scanty, but apparently local magic-users were reputed to fly on giant owls or on unfeasibly large bats, as well as taking the form of nocturnal birds. (_"Epperently, they are limited to flying by night or twilight. Epperently." _Johanna had said.)

Flying lower, she saw and heard a small tribe of monkeys... _careful, Irena. They could be apes. That's important... _rushing through the treetops. Something seemed to have spooked them. They sounded agitated. She flew lower, carefully above dung-flinging range. She recognised chimpanzees from visits to the city zoo, perhaps seventy to a hundred of them. Other, lesser, arboreal animals had been caught in their panicked flight; she noted the chimps were fleeing, and not seeking to hunt or kill the lesser monkeys.

She flew in the direction the animals seemed to be fleeing from. A break in the tree-line suggested the meandering course of a river, perhaps human habitation and clearance. Something major must be out there, to provoke the flight of so many animals... she also noted she was flying further inland, away from the coast that was her primary navigational guide. But this was worth it...

And then she was over a clearing. And she saw hundreds of men. Cooking fires had been lit. Men were bringing smaller, dark, carcasses in from the forest. Irena frowned. She'd heard about _bushmeat._ No wonder the chimps were running. She circled, several hundred feet up, seeing men stop, look upwards and point.

_Ah well. Get a rough head-count. Then get out of here and report back. It certainly looks like an army on the move... _She was relieved nobody was pointing bows or crossbows at her. _But they seem to be spear-armed. With those big peanut-shell shields the men we captured were carrying. A few bows, but smallish things, nothing like our longbows. Six hundred? Seven? _

Irena was used to estimating crowd numbers from above. It was an essential Air Police skill, so that she could report back accurately to a commander on the ground who did not have the advantage of height.

_On the move, judging by the trail behind them. Seven hundred men... _she frowned. _And women? That number of people tend to leave a track. Towards us. They're maybe... forty miles away? Johanna will need to know... now let me get out of here! _

She banked her steed around back to the Rimwards. Then she registered a discharge of magic. Flying instinct, as well as the alarm of her pegasus, which neighed fright, jerked her over to the left. A bright yellow fireball streaked past and she tasted tin in her mouth. She also smelt burnt feathers. Calming her mount, her first reaction was anger and indignation.

_How would Mistress Weatherwax react if some trigger-happy wizard tried to shoot her out of the sky? Exactly. Rrrright..._

She banked and jinked, trying to find the source of the fireball. A widening circle of men underneath had left a solitary capering finger in its centre, pointing some sort of wand upwards. Irena Politek, witch and air policewoman, but at this moment, mainly an annoyed witch, scowled at the capering figure who was pointing the wand, or bone, or whatever, upwards.

She extended a finger and put every ounce of Witch into her fingertip. A little cautious voice in her hindbrain was telling her not to get suckered into a magical duel – or a fight between a witch and a wizard had the potential to go on _forever_ – but she suppressed it and threw the elegant and witch-specific counter-spell down. As another fireball materialised, it met a water-bomb coming the other way. A small cloud disappeared in the sky overhead; the raw material for countering fire with water needed to come from _somewhere_, after all.

And the fireball was extinguished before it began, the native wizard suddenly thrown down by the force of fifty or so gallons of water hitting him more-or-less all at once.

Leaving the unspoken _See what I can do? So don't annoy me! _hanging in the air like a challenge, she spurred her mount on to the Rimwards. Judging herself out of range of foot pursuit, she landed on the beach and checked to see if anything had been damaged, noting with concern her pegasus **(3)** had a few scorched feathers on her starboard wing and was slowing in flight. She then applied herself to providing soothing reassurance and healing to her mount, vowing that she was going to have _words_ with that wizard. He'd just bought himself a _war_.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Extract from "My Journey Through Howondaland and Klatch", by The Honourable Miss Lucinda Rust, Raven House (Licenced Graduate Assassin). <strong>This copy of her thesis has been critically assessed by peers and teaching staff from the Guild, whose marginal and footnotes will be identified by initials. Peer review is an indispensible part of the academic process, after all. It is understood that an edited and expanded version will be published by Goatberger and Croppers' publishing house, and made available for public elucidation sometime in the coming year, under the title of **Alone in the Heart of Darkness: A White Woman's Ordeal In Howondaland, Beset By Rapacious Natives. **Doctor J.F. Smith-Rhodes of the Guild of Assassins has, unfortunately, flatly declined to provide a preface, despite her vast experience of the Continent and its peoples. _

"_Would those wretched primitives ever stop beating those drums!"_ Even though I recollected advice from my teachers about the tactics your hunters will use to distract and confuse you when you are the hunted, it was becoming difficult to think clearly. Miss Smith-Rhodes had been firmly of the opinion that Howondalandian natives not only use drums to attempt to strike fear and anxiety into the hearts of their opponents (naturally their effect on the morale of a member of the white nobility was _much less_), they also use them as a communication system that can _convey messages. _I remain sceptical of the ability of ignorant savages with no sophistication to create something akin to the Clacks. I suspect being Howondalandian herself – Father considers her to be a rednecked peasant farmer who was allowed to advance well above her proper social station – Miss Smith-Rhodes is herself tainted with superstition and irrational thinking. This must inevitably settle even on white people who have resided for generations among the black natives of this continent. After all, they are largely the descendants of Sto Kerrigian cheesemakers and tulip farmers, with a goodly admixture of Morporkian gutter-dwellers who failed to make a success at home and emigrated – scarcely our _best_ people!

_[[My feelings concerning the Rust family's genealogy, abilities and inclinations are mutual. JFS-R.]]_

_[[Lucinda, even after seven years of working alongside people like me, how on Disc can you STILL be as breathtakingly stupid, and as socially sensitive, as a heap of buffalo droppings! And if you like, I'll score this for timpani. RN'K.]]_

In the jungle cover it was pathetically easy to take advantage of the shifting light and shadow to evade the natives. But it STILL was not possible to safely pass through them and find safe passage on the other side.

_[[Over-confidence and ignorance of her opponents. I find it telling that Miss Rust confidently thought they had not seen her. Nor did it ever occur to her to consider they might be steering her in the direction in which they wished her to go. I cannot say I am surprised. JFS-R.]]_

I assessed the situation and considered that it might be necessary to inhume a couple of them in order to progress further. By the time their fellows discovered the bodies, I would be long gone on the other side of them. However, I reflected on the Guild's teaching that if no contract exists, inhumation is to be avoided. As one who would have become a Licenced Assassin but for the trick of fate that put me at the mercy of the insolent thief-taker Vimes, I was therefore obligated to respect this rather soft liberal notion. Besides, there was never a moment where one of the natives was out of sight of at least three of the others. While sure of my ability to inhume more than one of the wretches, there was a danger of not making a clean annulment, thus allowing a wounded native to call for help. I could not risk this.

_[[oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. She's still not got it, has she? SV]]_

_[[I do not object to this document going outside the Guild, in the special circumstances which apply. But how was it obtained by Sir Samuel? DD, Guild Master]]_

_[[I considered it only courteous, as Mr Vimes was so helpful in arranging for Miss Rust to see my native continent. He has a right to be briefed on the outcome. Besides, a man with his onerous responsibilities deserves a chance to unwind in the evening with pleasantly light reading. JFS-R]]_

Therefore, I observed. I was perplexed that these did not appear to be the KwaZulu people I had heard of. These were less imposing physical specimens, far shorter, with an unappealing aspect akin to the ape, standing no taller than five and a half feet. At the Guild School, I had once been forced to attend a foot-the-ball game with my classmates to cheer on a Guild side. Canon Clement had been playing, and at one point a rough and underhand approach tore his whole shirt off. Some of the more impressionable girls in my year had been somewhat _overcome_ at the sight of a very well-muscled black-skinned man standing a little over six feet tall, wearing only shorts and boots. While I naturally despised their weakness and giddiness, I was moved to speculate on _several hundred_ such men of his race armed with the short fighting spear which I am given to understand is this people's cultural weapon. My great-grandfather fought this tribe at Isandlhwana and Lawke's Drain.

I was therefore scornful of the scrawnier specimens before me now. I wondered if the Zulu race therefore sends only its very best representatives to study at the Guild School, those who are atypical of the breed as a whole. After all, Canon Clement is a Prince of the Royal House. Only the very best, in _any _society, rise above the common herd to become its nobility. My peer – I suppose I have to call her that – Ruth N'Kweze is a Princess of her people and should be given _some_ respect. The rest, as in this city, are mere hoi-polloi.

_[[You are an idiot. I suppose I have to call you that and give you the respect you deserve. And who won at Isandlhwana, anyway? Another stunning Rust victory for Ankh-Morpork. RN'K.]]_

_[[We have to be charitable. But I do find it depressing to an extreme that Miss Rust, even after seven years education, has failed to realise there are more than two tribes in Howondaland. The Zulu Confederation is a commonwealth of peoples, all of whom (save for the misguided Matabele) give allegiance to the Paramount King. We Zulus may rule but we are not the only tribe. We have a saying: banyans are not the only fruit on the Tree. My father's tree sustains many fruits. Although it is true that the Xhosa and the Khoikoi of the coastal forest are more low-hanging than we are. By six inches and thirty pounds, on average. Can. CN'E]_

Unfortunately, luck failed me. I felt the slightest of pricks on the back of my neck. My senses failed and I fell into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>Johanna and her fellow Assassins returned from the jungle. Ponder Stibbons noted that Jocasta and Ruth, as the two junior Assassins, were laden with cut poles and coils of tropical creeper. Idly, he wondered what it was for.<p>

A small goblin emerged from the grass on Johanna's right. She was impressed; she had suspected the goblins were tracking their movements, but so far had failed to see any. She also noticed the goblin was wearing a makeshift belt, roughly cut from the fabric of a tobacco bag, and it had a roughly-made hand-axe looped through it. A connoisseur of weaponry, she noted it was made from wood with a crude wooden blade tied to it by sturdy vines. It looked like somebody's fairly crude attempt to reproduce a description of a hand-axe delivered by a third party who'd never seen one, using limited available materials and tools. But it also said "essence of weapon" in an indefinable way. It could still stun somebody, if wielded properly.

"This way, this way!" the goblin urged her, leading them on a different path. Johanna, realising, took care to go where the goblin led. Jocasta, Ruth and Alice followed her.

"Your weapon, mr...?" she asked, politely.

"I am called _Born Under Green Light In Slavery,_ m's" the goblin said. "We decided we not going to be made slaves again. We made weapons. To fight with. But there is no stone here."

Johanna nodded, appreciatively. "I can show you a tropical herdwood. Good clubs end exes may be made. Whet do you know of spears?"

Alice grinned.

"I could show you how to make a basic bow. The principle is easy."

The goblin made what looked like an awkward curtsey. "I thank you."

"There would have been tools here. To hervest the tobacco. Where are they?" Jocasta asked, slightly muffled under her burden.

Born Under Green Light In Slavery laughed.

"_We_ know, m's." he said, "Step to right here, please."

* * *

><p>Johanna found Olga, staring anxiously into the Hubwards sky. Behind her, Jocasta and Ruth shed their burdens. It was accepted that if there was heavy carrying to do and nobody else was around, junior Assassins did it.<p>

"She hasn't returned yet. She's overdue." Olga said, simply.

Johanna took a deep breath. She was an Assassin. Sometimes people failed to return from hazardous missions. It was a fact of life. She searched for something to say. She failed. Ponder Stibbons joined them.

"Did Irena... you know... _know_?" he asked, one magic user to another. Johanna felt suddenly excluded.

Olga shook her head.

"She would have told me. Made the usual arrangements. You know, borrowed lots of money, cashed in her insurance policies, had a Going Away party, put the word out, invited as many other witches as could be found. Trust me on this."

Ponder nodded.

"So there's hope." he said. Olga brightened up. Then she looked dejected.

"She might have been injured. And be lying wounded somewhere. Or taken prisoner."

And then the sound of beating wings was heard, far away, but getting nearer and growing louder.

* * *

><p><em>The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork. <em>

Lord Vetinari steepled his fingers.

"You make a very persuasive case, Ambassador." he said, looking at Pieter van der Graaf over steepled fingers. "And I perceive that the exceedingly supportive Lady Frijda, do give her my cordial regards, has seen fit to pack a valise for you."

Van der Graaf smiled agreement. He waited for Vetinari's next move as the ever-present Rufus Drumknott inobtrusively took notes.

"But do look at this from my point of view." the Patrician continued, smoothly. "In common diplomatic language, when an Ambassador is _recalled Home for consultations_, it is generally interpreted as _ a_ _major international incident, falling just short of breaking off diplomatic relations._ In this city I have the _**Ankh-Morpork Times.**_ Which has power and influences the way people think. It will make much of this, when it finds out."

"I essure you, My Lord, that there is no disagreement between our nations. I believe I would be best placed to serve my nation's interests by a brief visit Home end en opportunity to speak directly to the Government of the Staadt. So es to evert potentially disestrous misunderstendings."

Vetinari nodded agreement.

"And you would be escorting the diplomatic bag, I note. Normally done via the normal post, or by a courier via the Klatchian flying carpet service if it needs to be there in three or four days, as opposed to the five or six week sailing time."

"Or in _this_ case, my Lord, eccording to my observations end deductions, less than one hour."

"Which means the need for communication is _really_ urgent." Vetinari mused. "To seek to forestall, perhaps, the consequences of two military forces meeting on a disputed border in a state of mutual distrust."

Rufus Drumknott coughed discreetly.

"The Klatchians _do _get rather boastful about the speed of their commercial carpet service." he observed. "Especially now they have added Genua to their list of destinations, and boast they can get a passenger there within five days. Far faster than the coaches or the river-boats."

"End they hope to hev direct flights to Egatea end Fourecks soon." the Ambassador said, a propos of nothing. "The new long-haul service. It is certainly a messive economic esset, end raises much revenue for Kletch, es well es the prestige fector involved."

"Yes. Much revenue. And _prestige_." Vetinari agreed, as if the points had not occurred to him. "Certainly they feel it accords them international bragging rights. Deservedly so. It is a great accomplishment."

The Patrician steepled his fingers again.

"But at the rates they charge, certainly ruinous for any Embassy that has a pressing need to communicate with its home government speedily and urgently. And of course the Klatchians are happy to carry diplomatic bags for any Embassy whose home capital is on an established flying route. They are developing a certain _monopoly_ on this business."

"And the Klatchians have a very well informed intelligence service." Drumknott remarked.

The three men fell into reflective silence. A country with a very good intelligence service handled diplomatic bags for quite a few nations. Nobody was ill-mannered or distrustful enough to link the two propositions. Diplomatic bags, by international convention, were inviolable and could not be tampered with.

"Ambassador, would you be willing to explore an even faster and more secure method of transport?" Vetinari asked. "In the interests of harmony between our nations and the fact our interests converge in this matter. Another Howondalandian war would be grievous and something any right-thinking leader should seek to avert. _Especially_ when I have a diplomatic and humanitarian mission in the disputed area, which would be compromised by any combat. I will prepare a note of my own to our Ambassador in Pratoria, and I would ask you if you would be so kind as to escort it for me. I will also prepare a friendly letter, as between Heads of State, for the _Staadtspraesident."_

Understanding each other, Vetinari and van der Graaf shook hands.

"Messengers from our Mission are expected imminently." the Patrician said, smoothly. "I would ask you to be present when they brief me. After a necessary interlude, there will be a return... flight. I shall brief the pilots with new instructions. For now, would you care to take refreshments?"

Having got more than he wanted, Pieter van der Graaf relaxed and smiled.

" Oh, and Drumknott, please advise the Matabelian ambassador to prepare an overnight bag, so that he can be recalled to _his _government for consultations? I will draft letters."

Van der Graaf grimaced slightly.

_Damn devious Vetinari._

Vetinari looked down at a piece of paperwork on his desk and smiled.

"And I see the Quirmian Ambassador has prepared appropriate accreditation for the diplomatic representative he wishes to send to the Mission. Capital. With Quirm alongside us, it adds more weight to what is now a _multi-national_ diplomatic mission."

"More firepower, too." agreed Drumknott. "Especially since the Low King has suggested a suitable person to represent his interests."

"They can travel out on the next flight." the Patrician decided.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Extract from "My Journey Through Howondaland and Klatch", by The Honourable Miss Lucinda Rust, Raven House (Licenced Graduate Assassin). <strong>Annotated for peer review purposes by interested persons from the Guild, whose marginal and footnotes will be identified by initials._

I awoke with a dull headache in a shadowed cooler place. At least the wretched drumming had finally ceased. As awareness of my surroundings came to me, I realised to my horror and my very great displeasure that I was virtually naked, with only a dirty native blanket for modesty. My clothing and equipment had been stripped from me and was nowhere to be seen. I was also aware of a sore spot in the nape of my neck that was inflaming and on its way to becoming an unsightly disfiguring boil.

I was in a foul native hovel, of the sort made by erecting a wooden frame and plastering it with mud. The roof above me appeared to be a sort of crude thatching of native vegetation. A strong smell of animal droppings, possibly bovine, was in the air.

_[[That could be the working title of this account. "Animal Droppings, Possibly Bovine" by Miss Lucinda Rust. RN'K.]]_

The accommodation offered was not at all satisfactory. I very strongly suspected I was lodged with the equivalent of Morporkians, proletarian natives. When according to custom, social standing and my rights as one noble-born, I should be housed in the home of the Chief at the very least. However, the pressing immediate situation demanded that I should raise my voice and insist on knowing whether a man or a woman had undressed me and abstracted my weapons. I pointed out, in the necessary loud and slow voice one uses when speaking to foreigners and natives, that had it been a man who laid hands on my person, _there would be trouble. _

It was imperative for them to become aware that the Rust family is not to be trifled with and is powerful and well-connected. An ill-favoured native woman smiled at me and motioned to some sort of drink that had been set beside me, in what looked to be a large plant gourd rather than a civilised glass. She was slow, and stupid, and did not understand good Morporkian, however slowly and loudly I repeated myself. Then she left the hovel, deaf to my imperatives to have the local head native delivered to me. I was left alone, with a beverage I strongly mistrusted. I composed myself and awaited events, forcing myself to remain calm. Periodically drums sounded. Other drums, further away, took up the beat. Others, further away still, appeared to answer. Then there was silence. Comparatively so.

* * *

><p><em>The former slave farm in Howondaland, evening. <em>

"Hmmmph. Well, I won't say I wasn't _worried_." Olga Romanoff said, with studied indifference. Irena had landed and called for assistance.

"Just a spot of scorching to the outer berbs." Johanna Smith-Rhodes reported. She was wondering, like Doughnut Jimmy before her, exactly how you went about veterinary diagnosis on a horse with wings. As Jimmy Folsom had remarked, _this beats them all, miss_. "The rachis is still intect. End you say there are et least seven hundred? Possibly two days march away?"

"Some of the outer vanes are damaged." Precious Jolson said. She was scaling up her experience with breeding and tending exotic cage-birds. Between her and Johanna, they thought they could provide the necessary expertise to deal with an injured pegasus. Precious was holding the injured wing out as if she was dealing with a damaged canary or a budgie that had been attacked by a cat. Precious disliked Ankh-Morpork's cats.

"No deep-down damage. I'm going to have to pull some of the damaged feathers, Irena. The burn goes down to the after-feather here and here. If you leave the burnt feather in, it'll take longer for new pins to work through."

"She _will_ regrow them, though? I estimate about seven hundred, Johanna. Mainly spear armed but with some archers. No crossbows or anything, No swords that I could see. The odd thing is that some were women."

"It'll take about a month. That's based on what I know about canaries and parakeets, of course... and why "odd", exactly?"

"Were the women ermed or were they just cemp followers?"

"Hard to tell, Johanna. A lot of the spears were stacked. Can she still fly?"

"I need to remove maybe half a dozen damaged feathers. That's only a tiny number on a wing like this and none of them are flight pinions. You can still fly her, she'll just look a little bit lopsided till the new feathers grow in. I'd rest her for a few days, though. Johanna, some of the princes of Matabeleland keep women warriors as a personal bodyguard. If there are women warriors there, that suggests the Prince is nearby. Irena, can you keep her calm? This might sting a bit and I _really_ don't want to get kicked. Being pecked by a budgie is bad enough."

Between the four of them, they kept Cupcakes calm as Precious deftly plucked the damaged feathers.

"We usually fly to Lancre to get them shoed." Olga remarked. "It's nice to go back. With horses like these, you can only _really _take them to Jason Ogg. No other blacksmith could do it."

"They're docile for him." agreed Irena. She smiled, recalling Granny Weatherwax's reaction to her two former pupils swanning in on winged horses they'd got from somewhere. Granny's acerbic welcome "Oh, so ordinary broomsticks aintent good enough for the two of you two no more, is that it?" had contained both disapproval and grudging envy. Nanny Ogg had made comment about the obviously stallion nature of Olga's mount and asked "You've not had him cut, have you? Occurs to me you could leave him in a field with Hobley's mares, see what happens!" She had added a helpful description of what she thought _would_ happen. With gestures. **(4)**

* * *

><p>Johanna went to find Ponder, analysing the two patrol reports. As Olga and Irena prepared for the flight back to Ankh-Morpork, she tapped him on the shoulder and said "Work to do. Before it gets dark." She indicated the pile of poles and creepers. From her backpack, she produced a ball of normal baling string, of the sort commonly used in the city.<p>

"Watch whet I do end seek to copy it exectly." she said, taking out her machete. Nonplussed, Ponder took a knife and observed as she lopped poles to size and began binding them together. She paused to compare dimensions and correct Ponder's work. He watched and followed her in tightly lashing together poles with jungle creepers and good old Morporkian parcel twine.

"Tight, Ponder. Tight es possible." she said, notching the long pole in two places and deftly working in an angled support. Other people about the camp watched them curiously. Johanna, he realised, was making this into a lesson. "Use the wood. Make it work for you. Do not rely on the binding elone. Notch it deeply. Shape the wood so the pieces fit end bite into each other. When weight is epplied to the structure, the perts will settle into each other under the weight end support two people."

Ponder realised.

"We're building a _bed_?" he asked. She smiled at him and brushed wood shavings and chips from her tunic.

"Of course, Ponder! Did you really think we would be lying on the jungle floor on a blenket? Not in _my_ jungle!"

And a bed frame was emerging. It was surprisingly sturdy.

"What do we use for a mattress?" Ponder asked, curiously.

"We don't. I will tie end weave this creeper between the two long horizontal poles. It will be strong enough to take our weight end if tied correctly, will not seg. A groundsheet on top end we hev a bed to sleep in. Now go to the midden, Ponder, end find four empty tins. I will finish here."

By the time he returned, Johanna had completed the bed. He had to admit it looked comfortable.

"We will, I think, sleep here."

She indicated a spot. Ponder realised it was in the open, but offered a good view of all sides of the camp. They carried the bed there. Johanna took care to ensure the legs each stood in a large empty tin. She filled each tin with water.

"I do not want anything else getting into bed with us." she explained. "Some of the insect life in this gress is _not nice_. The _guggas _ here do not mess around. End then we cen sleep underneath the stars."**(6)**

* * *

><p>They ate a belated dinner, a stew made from bush-pork and the tinned vegetables carried from the city, with a makeshift <em>mealiepap<em> made from oatmeal and polenta. Ponder thought it was rather good. A less luxurious ration was provided for the prisoners. Under armed guard, a work-detail of prisoners was organised to ensure the mess tins and eating utensils were thoroughly scrubbed and cleaned. Johanna wanted no sickness in the camp, and as she pointed out, the prisoners were as likely to get a debilitating illness as anyone else. She reinforced the point by throwing back a mess-tin that she considered had not been properly cleansed. It bounced off the chest of the man she threw it at. The former camp guard, a huge thuggish looking brute, glared murderously at her. She scowled at him and added a few choice words in Vondalaans. He flushed a dangerous red, but submitted. Quite a few pointy things pointing in his direction were probably a consideration.

"I'd watch him, Johanna." Alice Band advised her. "Not that you couldn't deal with it, of course."

"_Ag._ He's Howondalandian. Tried to hide it, but he's a Boor from the Veldt. He knows he's in line for a short step into Heaven with a rope necklece if the Staadt gets him. I'm not sure if it is his real name, but the others call him Preet. The goblins hate him. I've esked for iconogrephs so we cen take pictures end have them checked egainst criminal records. Mr Pessimal tells me the Watch heven't been able to do much more than basic questioning yet. But I'd bet ell those bros in there ere wented criminels in one place or enother."

"And Ruth and Precious are guarding them." Alice reflected. "I bet they really love _that_!"

"A little courtesy detail." Johanna shrugged. "however desperate they mey get, they know armed bleck guards with no reason to love them will not be gentle. I hev suggested our two guests, who are _respectful _of our Witches, be re-armed end essigned to help guarding. Precious says both hev been here before, end hev seen how the prisoners treated the goblins. Neither of them eppreciated whet he saw. I believe they will be loyal."

Johanna looked up at the sky. The airborne units had taken off for a return trip shortly before. "I believe we have at most thirty minutes before nightfall." she said. "Night comes quickly in the jungle. There is perheps time to bathe before sleep. A quick dip to wesh the dey away. Coming? Put the word out. Women only, end women _first_!"

Johanna started walking to the beach. Alice grinned, and went to find others.

* * *

><p><strong>(1) <strong>Well, Granny Weatherwax had once snubbed Leticia Earwig when their two broomsticks had met in the skies over Lancre, but this form of exchange of hostilities is normal behaviour for witches _anywhere._ And Nanny Ogg was one Elf short of becoming a recognised Ace, having shot down four Elf yarrow-stalk riders over Lancre during a recent trans-temporal incursion.** (2)**

**(2) **Her Dwarf air-gunner Casanunder had contributed with some accurate air-to-air crossbow work.

**(3) **Irena called _her_ pegasus _сладкий кекс. _Johanna secretly thought "Cupcakes" was not a dignified name for a proud graceful animal.

**(4) **Olga and Irena had wondered about this. They couldn't go back to their Watch colleague, Yuri the Medusa, and inflict a bloody wound on her. Gorgons were hard to damage. **(5)** But the next generation of pegasii had to come from _somewhere_.

**(5) **See my story _**Bad Hair Day**_, about the Medusa in the Watch. In Greek mythology, the original pegasus was spontaneously born out of the blood shed from the Gorgon, Medusa. In Ankh-Morpork, Eyureale (Yuri) the Ephebian Medusa had sustained a nosebleed after being swiped across the face by a troll. Rainbow Dash and Cupcakes were born from her nose.

**(6) **Yes. I do watch Ray Mears and Bear Grylls. Generally in a "rather you than me" sort of way. It is entirely possible Johanna would exchange fan mail with both.


	9. How we calmed the tides of war

**Darkest Howondaland Incident – new part!**

_Carrying on where I left off, where a major international incident is brewing in Darkest Howondaland following the discovery of the slave goblin farm in** Snuff. ** Political machinations in Ankh-Morpork and elsewhere now begin to impinge upon our heroines – and heroes - who are not to remain undisturbed much longer. New personnel will arrive in the jungle who require habituation to the climate and setting. International exchanges -and one diplomatic protest - are made at very high level. A young officer of the Howondalandian Army, on his first independent command, will realise he's out of his depth and needs at least to learn to tread water. And Lucinda's gap year continues when she meets old acquaintances. To Mary Craig, to ease her pangs at finishing every new chapter. _

_Night, the former slave labour camp, Rimwards Howondaland. _

Camp routines settled down into sleep. It was impractical to do any more; as Johanna knew, the jungle did not know twilight. Night settled almost as though the relevant God had thrown a switch, something Ponder Stibbons found deeply unsettling even after nearly a week there. Everyone settled to sleep as best they could. It was agreed night guard duties would be a combination of watching goblins backed up by the alarms and traps the mission had set, both mundane and magical. Goblins had good night vision and had been primed for what to look out for.

Alice Band tried to sleep, finding it irksome that she still felt wide awake. Her body had left Ankh-Morpork at eight in the morning and had arrived in Howondaland at one in the afternoon. But only twenty-three minutes had passed in between. Therefore as far as her body was concerned, it was still only the middle of the afternoon. She shifted position impatiently. Ponder Stibbons had tried to explain the concept to her. Wizards called it _thlabber-lag._ It happened when your body moved faster than the normal precession of the Disc. It would take time for her body to get the idea she wasn't in Ankh-Morpork any more, but somewhere nearer the Rim of the Disc. She rolled on the uncomfortable camp-bed and regarded Precious and Ruth, who were somehow sleeping sitting upright, blanket-wrapped, backs resting against the wall of the hut, in the Howondalandian native manner. _At least they're asleep. Whatever wizards call it, to get lagged like this between two time zones is a bloody nuisance. Get Lagged. Sounds like swearing. Hmmph. _

She rolled over again, noting, irritably, that Jocasta Wiggs was fast asleep. She was, she decided after a swift calculation, the sole insomniac. Alice wondered about taking a walk to see if that settled her. Then she reflected it would be a bad idea. This was an operational area, and there were a lot of traps out there. She ought to know, she'd set some of them up herself. Walking in a very dark jungle at night, although she was familiar with at least some of the local terrain, would be an incredibly bad idea. There were traps out there she hadn't set. Some of them involved _magic. _Ponder Stibbons was a very good wizard. He knew his limitations, for one thing, and unlike the rest of the Faculty, he was careful about spells he cast and thought about what he was doing. And the two witches had added ideas of their own. Witches were people Alice gave great professional respect to, as from one professional working woman to another. She sighed. Essentially she was stuck in this hut until daylight. At least Precious Jolson had dug, and adequately screened, a privy for female use only... somewhere a large feral animal growled. Johanna had briefed everyone to expect this and not to be unduly alarmed. _Another good reason for not blundering around in the dark... _idly, she wondered if there were lions in the the leopards and panthers Johanna had casually spoken about were bad enough.

And then there was a discernable change in the complexion of the night sky. A sudden explosion of non-light, which awoke Ruth N'Kweze instantly. As Ruth reached for weapons, Alice sat upright and swung her legs to the earth, glad of a reason to be up and moving. A bishop's daughter, Discworld genetics had given her one or two priestly attributes. When a God manifested, there was measurable activity in the Disc's magical field, for instance. And a symptom of magical activity was octarine light. Alice, to a degree, could see in the octarine. This was a useful skill for a night-moving Assassin. She conferred briefly with Ruth and they moved out.

* * *

><p><em>Early evening, the Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork. <em>

"I see." the Patrician said. The airborne units had returned to the city to rest, eat, report back, and ultimately take fresh cargo and instructions to the Mission. Buggy Swires and Wee Mad Arthur had unerringly craw-stepped two pegasii and a magic carpet back into the mundane world several thousand feet above the City. Night had begun falling over Howondaland; it was perhaps seven o'clock here.

Despatches had been handed over and the two Air Policewomen had added verbal reports. The presence of Commander Vimes had been requested. The Matabelian Ambassador was looking even more uncomfortable. Being summoned to Vetinari and instructed to pack a bag for his return Home had been unsettling enough. He was thinking in terms of diplomatic relations being broken off and wondered what had annoyed Ankh-Morpork. And how he'd explain that to his government without ending up being staked out for hungry leopards.

Pieter van der Graaf smiled at his colleague's discomfort and again read the report from Johanna that Vetinari had graciously handed over, unopened. Apparently the Matabelians were moving in force from the Hubwards and had been so indiscreet as to fire on Irena Politek. But the garrison at Trekopje appeared relaxed and going about normal duties, although Olga Romanoff had reported clear signs of a patrol, of less than ten men, setting out on a mission. _Which in itself could just be routine training. _Johanna had assured him that she was supervising strictly defensive preparations for the Mission and she was requesting his advice as to how to proceed. Van der Graaf wondered what her interpretation of _strictly defensive_ was and how it might vary from a normal interpretation of the phrase. He strongly suspected another Lawke's Drain was in the making and hoped he could avert actual bloodshed. _And as for bloodshed..._

Samuel Vimes stepped deliberately into the Matabelian Ambassador's personal space and eyeballed him. Vimes was not a happy Commander.

"So one of _your_ bloody witch-doctors fired at one of _my_ Watchwomen, Benjamin?"

The Ambassador, although a big man, taller and wider than Vimes, took a reflex step backwards. Vimes stepped forwards to maximise the ongoing eyeballing.

"Assault on a Watch officer. Damage to Watch property, to wit, one Pegasus. Attempted murder, even, as your trigger-happy bloody wizard was trying to shoot her down from a height of eight hundred feet. _And_ an act of aggression against this City's representative. Benjamin, right here in this room you are _bloody lucky_ to have diplomatic immunity!"

The Ambassador shot a look of appeal to Vetinari, trying to avoid Pieter van der Graaf's expression of diplomatic satisfaction.

"Indeed so, Sir Samuel." the Patrician said, quickly. "And I am certain your feelings, so eloquently expressed, will be relayed to the Matabelian political leadership for their guidance and consideration, when His Excellency shortly returns to his country _for consultations." _

The colour drained from the Ambassador's face as he realised the price for evading Vimes' anger was being sent home, to explain to an unsympathetic King how Ankh-Morpork had been offended.

"I stress I am not withdrawing your accreditations or exiling you in disgrace, nor am I breaking off diplomatic relations." Vetinari said. "I wish you to convey my cordial regards to the King and explain the current situation to him as a matter of some urgency. Then arrangements will be made to return you here almost immediately with the response from your government. Speed is of the essence here so as to prevent an outbreak of hostilities. I am requesting Ambassador van der Graaf does likewise with the Government of Rimwards Howondaland. Documents are being prepared for both of you. Drumknott, is the carpet-train readied?"

"Mr Le-Tahksi and Officer Romanoff are finalising the details, my lord." Rufus Drumknott confirmed. "As, temporarily, we only have one Pegasus, the logistics are strained, but I believe all the equipment and personnel requested can be delivered safely."

Vetinari acknowledged this.

"The imperative, according to Inspector Pessimal and Doctor Smith-Rhodes, is providing suitable foodstuffs for the goblins, as the last of the stores provided by Gravid Rust are now either running out or rendered unfit even for goblin consumption."

"Carpets five-to-twelve will be carrying nothing other than foodstuffs, my lord."

"Capital. The rescue and sustenance of the goblins is the prime reason for our presence, after all. And the new personnel?"

"The diplomatic representatives from Quirm and the Low Kingdom are in an adjacent room, being briefed. Additional Watchmen and Assassins' Guild personnel will also be flying out." Drumknott confirmed.

Vetinari smiled. This time there was humour in it.

"I'm sorry we could not send a troll. Sadly, even the very best cooling helmet would not be adequate in the Howondalandian jungle. But the Diamond King appreciates this. For now, I would appreciate an interview with the Special Plenipotentiary Representative of the Duchy of Quirm. Thank you."

* * *

><p><em>The former slave camp, night.<em>

Ponder Stibbons awoke from a deep sleep. Johanna was lying against him, her face pressed into his shoulder, one arm stretched out across his body. He took a few moments to appreciate the intimacy. And the makeshift sleeping shelf was surprisingly comfortable. But something felt wrong. He could hear nothing that sounded out of the ordinary. No alarmed goblins. He wasn't sure if anything was there to be _seen_; it was dark and he wasn't wearing his glasses. But something was wrong, some little thing. He focused. Wizard-senses were tingling. There was the faintest sense of sour tin in his mouth. Magic? Somewhere?

He could smell Johanna, recently bathed in sea-water. It was a nice smell. Salt and underlying healthy adult woman. He felt her wriggle as she surfaced.

"Johanna." he whispered. "What can you see?"

He heard the low growl of a nearby hunting animal. He suddenly felt very vulnerable.

"Jungle cet." Johanna murmured. "Nothing to worry ebout. They prefer smaller prey."

He wasn't reassured.

"I can taste magic." he whispered. "Remember the Leopard Society? What if that's not an ordinary leopard?"

Johanna got the point immediately. She feigned rolling over in her sleep and let an arm flop down into the grass. Then she rolled again, her hand carrying Ponder's spectacles. She brought them to his face, again feigning the lazy uncoordinated movements of sleep.

"Put these on". she whispered. "I will watch to our left. You look for things on the right."

Johanna registered a flash of movement in the jungle verge, a hundred yards or so to the left. She frowned. The bird was pale in the darkness, about three feet long, and moved with a fussy gait. She also observed that somewhere a leopard or other predator was stalking it; the bird seemed wary and was poised to flight into the forest canopy. But its beady eyes glimmered in the darkness, a dull ruby-red reflection from somewhere...

"Ponder." she whispered. "Is there such a thing as a spell. Thet strips away megicel illusion, end enables you to see things es they truly are?"

Ponder briefly considered. Formal spellcasting in the old way was not his greatest skill. But he could do it in need... he turned over memories of old lessons and researching in grimoires, wishing HEX were here to assist.

"Errr... yes..." he said, after a while.

"Gut. Then be more sure of yourself, end cest the spell over in this direction." she said, curtly.

Ponder focused, recalled old half-forgotten syllables, and pointed his finger as she steered his wrist, an Assassin directing her chosen weapon. There was an octarine flash that not-quite-lit the jungle night; it was more, Johanna reflected, like the after-image that lingers on closed eyelids after looking at a bright light.

And there it was. The _impondolu _bird remained. But superimposed on it like a double-exposed iconongraph slide was the figure of a human. She remembered the look of surprise on the black man's face as he stood, unsure of whether to run, or reach to his waist for his pointing bone.

Johanna rolled and leapt off the sleeping shelf, heedless of her bare feet; Ponder sat up, suddenly realising he had a magical problem on his hands. A leopard that had been poised to strike at the bird hissed and recoiled back, recognising a sudden need to change its plans for the night.

The black man, who Johanna recognised as a classic Matabelian witch-doctor, grinned at Ponder. He looked around and assessed the more mundane threats of leopard and armed Assassin.

_This is not over, Morporkian wizard._

Ponder heard the words as if they had been spoken directly into his ear.

_I salute your power. You took me by surprise. I am outnumbered here. But next time, beware!_

The leopard had defaulted to grooming itself and seeking to convey the impression that this was what it had intended all along, so don't mind me.

Johanna had come up with her machete ready for action. The native wizard took a step back from her. He had recognised _white racial enemy with a lethal weapon. _Without a fuss or undue drama, man and bird merged back together again and there was a flash of wings in the night.

Johanna breathed out, un-tensed, and pointed at the leopard with her machete.

"You know whet a shabraque is?" she asked it. "If you do not wish to become one, I would _voetsaak_."

The leopard gratefully slunk off into the jungle. It knew what a machete was, even if a _shabraque _was, as yet, unknown. Somewhere in the back of its cat mind it sensed it did not want to find out.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork. <strong>_

The Special Plenipotentiary Representative of the Duchy of Quirm took a deep breath. The red, white, and blue diplomatic sash rose and fell with the breath.

"_Vu._" she said, monosyllabically. "So I am to be despatched to the deep and inhospitable Howondalandian jungle to perform a diplomatic chore for my nation. As a proud and loyal _citoyenne _of Quirm, I am to accept that this is my duty and a responsibility and a honour."

"Precisely so, _Comptesse._" Havelock Vetinari said, mildly. Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Epées scowled darkly, then her head jerked up in surprise. Vetinari apparently realised, then corrected himself.

"_Madame." _he corrected himself. "Not yet a _Comptesse." _He let his apparent error hang in the air, and smoothly continued. "Although I hear, unhappily, that your mother-in-law, the dowager Countess of the Lapoignard estates, is ill and has taken to her bed. As she is well over eighty, any illness is serious, alas. I hear your husband may be recalled from Klatch and granted compassionate leave to be at her bedside."

Emmanuelle hadn't heard this, but did not let her surprise show. It was most like Vetinari to be better informed than anyone else in the room, damn him. It was typical of him to drop a _bombe_ into the middle of a conversation to glean what he could from the recipient's surprise. And there it was, the implied offer of reward for her services. But not an _explicit _one, she reflected. It never was. She gathered herself. Was it really true that after an indefinite stay in the most appalling dank sweaty jungle, hundreds of miles from civilised comforts, that she might return as Countess Lapoignard, the obstacle to her elevation to nobility finally gone to meet her Gods? It had been pointed out to her some years before, when she had married Maurice, that merely becoming wife to a Count did not elevate her social status. So far as the old _beldame _was concerned, she, Emmanuelle, would remain a mere _Madame_, a commoner. One with no access to the family estates, or jewel-box, or the Lapoignard family money so long as her husband's mother remained alive.

Vetinari, thrice damn him, knew which buttons to press to ensure compliance.

"And I see you have consulted with your colleague Miss van Kruger as to appropriate dress for the climate. Capital." Vetinari said, smoothly switching the conversation. "I am told it can get humid and uncomfortable in the tropics. Normal Assassin style would not be appropriate there."

Heidi van Kruger, a recently graduated junior Assassin, was to accompany the latest mission. A compatriot of Johanna, she knew what was needed and had kitted her former teacher out in safari khaki. The unfamiliar khaki, the tricolour sash, and the white pith hat with fetching white scarf, made Emmanuelle stand out as if she were a genteel lady explorer of earlier times._ But Alice Venturi and the others all actively _**wanted**_ to be there. Strange women. _

"I am sure Miss van Kruger will guide your footsteps. She knows the not inconsiderable pitfalls and perils of the country you are visiting. You have your letters of accreditation, and you have been briefed? Capital. Do not let me detain you, _Comptesse_."

Emmanuelle gritted her teeth and forced a smile. _Comptesse de Lapoignard_. Maybe. Only maybe.

* * *

><p>Dismissed, the latest expeditionary party made its way up to the roof of the Patrician's Palace where their transport awaited.<p>

After a while, a Pegasus and a string of laden carpets took off, ascending into the twilight sky.

"What happened?" Alice Band asked, making her careful way across the camp compound. Johanna shrugged.

"Megical intrusion. They sent a witch-doctor to test our defences. Ponder dealt with him..."

She broke off. Alice was staring at Ponder, who was rocking slightly on his feet and staring belligerently into the night sky.

"_You and whose impi_?" Ponder demanded of the empty sky. He had the light of battle in his eyes. This was uncharacteristic behaviour for Ponder Stibbons. Johanna felt alarmed.

"I got a spell fired up and ready to go!" Ponder shouted. "In fact I've got _lots_ of spells. _Do you want some_?"

"Oh, _kack_." Johanna cursed.

"I'd unwind him if I were you." Alice advised her, kindly. "Mustrum Ridcully told me wizards get like this in a fight."

_But Ponder's behaviour is perfectly characteristic of a wizard who's just won a magical fight with another wizard..._

She stepped forwards and, as gently as she could, as firmly as she dared, slapped Ponder in the face.

"Ouch!" he said, reeling slightly backwards. He looked into Johanna's face, which radiated concern and stern dissapproval. He realised that if she'd _really _wanted to hit him, he wouldn't even be standing right now.

"Your first real fight?" she asked him, gently. Ponder nodded, the unaccustomed testosterone draining away.

"Yes. er... thank you." he said, sheepishly. Johanna hugged him.

"Mr Ridcully would be _proud _of you." she said. "You faced down enother wizard end defeated him. Old-school wizard combet. You just need to learn to come down efterwards."

Ponder reddened and nodded. He reflected on how quickly older wizard instincts had taken him over. You get into a magical fight, you _zap. _He was glad he hadn't a staff to hand. Or else it might have got out of hand.

"I like my jungle the wey it is." she said. "Please don't go blesting great big holes in it."

"Not unless you have to." Alice Band added, practically. "And warn me first."

* * *

><p><em>Some miles Rimwards of the slave farm, early next morning.<em>

Sergeant Theijssman awoke the members of the recce patrol. The young _Liutnant_ in nominal command was relieved that the experienced soldiers went to the usual reveille chores quickly and competently, rolling up and securing groundsheets and blankets, and setting a guarded cooking fire for breakfast. After a while, Private Maarlei tapped him on the shoulder and passed him a mug of coffee.

"Thank you." the officer acknowledged him. His ethnicity meant the Morporkian "_Thank you_" came more easily to his lips than the Vondalaans "_Dankie_". He was fluent enough in Vondalaans, but it was not his first or preferred language.

He heard Maarlei, Tuitz van der Majtaals, and Dekker conversing about the supernumerary patrol member who was still asleep, speculating on whether to deliver a gentle prod with a boot to get him out of his _scheissvol_ pit. Wondering whether to intervene, he decided his wisest response was deafness. The other patrol member was fairly new to the _Kommando_ and had little jungle experience. He needed some practical education.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Extract from "My Journey Through Howondaland and Klatch", by The Honourable Miss Lucinda Rust, Raven House (Licenced Graduate Assassin). <strong>As previously, annotated for peer review purposes by interested persons from the Guild, whose marginal comments and footnotes will be identified by initials._

My clothing was eventually returned to me by one of the idiotic and ill-favoured native women. I was angry that my weapons and equipment were being with-held, and again I demanded to see the head native. At least they had laundered my things to a satisfactory degree, although the primitives here did not know about _pressing_ them. I dressed, ascertained myself that the gourd held only water, and drank my fill. It tasted foul but at least it was water.

_{{But she did not check the water had been boiled first. Just because the natives can drink the water and are habituated to it does not mean somebody straight out of even Ankh-Morpork is safe. Perhaps one brought up in the Shades or Dimwell may consume Howondalandian river water with impunity. And even comment on how fresh and tasteless it is. But not one from upmarket Ankh. JF-SR}}_

_Editor's note: The Honourable Miss Rust glosses over what happened next, possibly for delicacy's sake. But she does mention that she was somewhat ill for over a week and did not take in the finer details of her place of confinement. We can infer that skilled local hands restored her to health, however._

* * *

><p><em>Pratoria, Rimwards Howondaland, morning. <em>

Pieter van der Graaf shook his head as the pegasus popped into the real world again, with an audible displacement of air. He wondered if people on the ground were looking up to see where the noise was coming from, and attempted to clear his head so as to objectively assess his surroundings. They had cast off the string of magic carpets over the jungle somewhere to the Hubwards. One carpet, carrying the Matabelian Ambassador, had detached itself a short while before and had sped to the Rimwards. The clever Klatchian fellow, Joe le-Tahksi, would see they safely landed at the camp. Pieter wanted to visit and see for himself, but that could wait: there was more pressing business that meant Olga Romanoff and the ugly little pictsie perched between the horse's ears had to take him still further. Buggy Swires grinned an evil little pictsie grin, then stood up on top of the pegasus's head and lifted one foot, as if _seeking_ something...

"Rimwards by widdershins, wasn't it, mister?" he called. Then the jungle beneath blanked out. The Ambassador closed his eyes to stop himself from being disorientated, as he had been taught.

The sun was warm on his back and exposed skin. The sky was largely cloudless. But there was a note in the smell of the air and the distant sound... he realised with a thrill that he was Home. From this height he could see a meandering river, some cultivated fields punctuated by veldt wilderness, and the general rich red-brown of the earth streaked and spotted with green like a piece of modern art by that Jockson Pillock fellow, a contemporary of the notorious Daniellerina Pouter.

He tapped Olga Romanoff on the shoulder.

"Over there to the left. Do you see it?"

Seeing the grey blur on the horizon that indicated a city, with lots of smoke from cooking fires and industrial activity, she raised a thumb and angled the pegasus towards it.

Rehearsing in his mind the arguments he would have to deliver, and patting his jacket pocket for the despatches from Vetinari, the Ambassador smiled, contentedly.

He was returning Home.

_**Extract from "My Journey Through Howondaland and Klatch", by The Honourable Miss Lucinda Rust, Raven House (Licenced Graduate Assassin). **As previously, annotated for peer review purposes by interested persons from the Guild, whose marginal comments and footnotes will be identified by initials._

I felt somewhat weak and unsteady on my feet, but consoled myself that, primitive though the nursing had been, and undignified in some respects, the very fact I had been nursed back to health meant these people had a purpose for me that precluded the possibility of death. I was discontented that they would still not return my weapons or equipment to me. Questioning and observation revealed to me that these were stored in a hut in the native settlement that was under continual armed guard. The native guards were not unduly offensive, but prohibited my entering this hut. I also realised I had free movement within the walls of the village, but the gate guard would not let me leave. I was, to all intents and purposes, under open arrest. I resolved that once my strength had returned, to break into the hut by night, retrieve my things, and scale the wall to freedom.

For now, native women provided me with food and with a thin, sour, liquid which I understood to be native beer. Reasoning that the alcohol content would act as disinfectant against further illness, I drank this sparingly, just enough to keep my body correctly hydrated.

_{{Rare common sense here. Some lessons sank in, evidently. JF-SR.}}_

Having been given some local freedom, I became aware of a native who was dressed subtly differently from the others, in what appeared to have started off as civilised clothing but which had taken on the patina of the jungle. This individual was watching me with a combination of wary respect and insolent amusement. Finally I snapped at him and demanded ot know what he found so interesting. I was scarcely expecting comprehension and was surprised at his reply.

"Just glad to see you're better, baas-lady. By the way, can I give you me invoice for the cost of the medicine and the nursing, prompt payment politely hinted at? I take Ankh-Morpork dollars or Rimwards Howondalandian rand for preference, but I'll accept _kwachas,_ them's the Matabele currency, Kwa'Zulu _lilangeli_, Ymiturian _ariari, _Djelibeybian pounds,Hersheban_ groats, _ Klatchian dinars, Cape Terror escudos, Ghatian silver rupees, but only silver, mind, or else any accepted trade goods you can barter. You know, shells, ingots, any spare golddust and gold coins about your person, arrowheads, spare weaponry, iron, salt, cattle, goats, blankets, axes, beads, bronze trading rings, but not Omnian missionary glass beads, miss, they're rubbish, nobody accepts 'em. Current rates of exchange expressed in Ankh-Morpork dollars are on the invoice, mem-sahib!"

This seedy-looking individual then almost bowed and gave me a grubby invoice for his alleged services. I had a feeling I had seen somebody very like him somewhere before, but could not place him.

But _he was speaking Morporkian! _Overcome to an extent, once my wits had returned I asked about this.

"Well, yeah. International trader like me with a presence in every country in Howondaland, you gotta be, wossname, multi-lingual, ain't yer? 'Sides, Morporkian is yer international language of convenience, innit, wherever you go somebody speaks it, _namanahee_? Klatchian too, _insh'Offler_. Bill for medicine and nursing services comes to twelve dollars, mem-sahib, and that's bashin' me brains out with me own knobkerrie."

_{{Is there a factory somewhere that makes them? Are there a specialised clan of Igors who will custom-build them to the appropriate local specification? One of life's mysteries. DD, Guild-Master}}_

I reflected on my predicament. On the one hand, the insolent fellow's demands for money were irksome. On the other, he spoke Morporkian, so had had some contact with civilisation. He was the ideal intermediary in dealings with the natives.

"I believe I may have _employment_ for you, fellow." I said. I contemplated the meagre store of money I had been allowed. I remembered Monsieur leBalouard telling the class that if stranded in a foreign country, nothing got you out of there quicker than gold. Always carry a roll of gold coins about your person and judiciously employ them to bribe and buy favour. _Gold_, he had said, _is your friend._

"I'm listening, miss. The chief here is honest and says you have money in your effects. He ain't nicked none. Duty of civilised hospitality, see? Unwritten law. 'Sides, the Paramount Chief would have him over a fire-ant mound covered in honey quicker than you could speak. Zulu law, see. Applies here. They might be right bastards, baas-lady, and you wouldn't like to cross them, but they got _morals._ And fire ants. "

With nothing else to do, I exploited this rogue's store of information concerning Howondaland and prayed it was accurate.

_{{Lucinda Rust. Honey. Fire ants. Oh please the Gods she got to annoy my father the Paramount when she met him. Please! R N'K.}}_

* * *

><p><em>The former slave camp, first light. <em>

Things had settled down again after the incident in the night. Johanna had added to her store of knowledge that Matabele witch doctors were at least able to Borrow night-flying birds, which might explain the confused folklore about their being able to fly by night using owls and bats as steeds. She'd run it past Olga and Irena later and ask about Borrowing and how it worked. For now, there was breakfast, an unappealing _mealiepap _of oatmeal and water. She noticed Inspector Pessimal ate his with every sign of enjoyment and asked politely for seconds. There was no accounting for taste, she supposed. A foraging goblin tugged shyly at her hem. She looked down, then smiled. From somewhere, the goblins had gathered wild guavas. And she was being offered some. She smiled and thanked the goblin. Stewed guava would make breakfast more enjoyable.

Ponder and Alice had gone to check the traps and ensure they were not compromised or disabled following the incursion by night. Johanna remained, discussing details of camp management with Pessimal. There was not much that could be done until the first flight from Ankh-Morpork arrived. Resting, she composed herself to make up for interrupted sleep. It seemed like a sensible thing to do when everything was quiet.

Some time later, there was a commotion. A cloud of noisy goblins was coalescing around three figures on the camp perimeter. She sighed, and went over to investigate.

She discovered a raggedy individual of the sort her country might have racially categorised as _light-skinned coloured. _He wore what might charitably have been described as a tunic and shorts, but these had seen not so much better days as better months. He was followed by two laden native bearers, possibly Bantu or Hoitentoits, who were grinning and fending off curious goblins as best they could. The coloured man moved towards her and knuckled a salute that was just on the right side of dumb insolence.

"Scuse me, are you the baas-lady round these parts?" he said, in Morporkian. Johanna nodded. Assessing him as no immediate threat, she gestured towards the cooking pots.

"Help yourself. You look like you could use a breakfast. See your natives get fed, too."

"OK, baas-lady. Thank you for your kindness. Errr... do we need, you know, to eat seperately?"

"Technically, yes. Es far as I'm concerned, no. This isn't Rimwards Howondaland, for the moment." She indicated the hippopotamus flag of Ankh-Morpork, that Pessimal had insisted the mission fly. "You're in Enkh-Morpork, surprising though it may seem. Long story. Enkh-Morpork does not hev apartheid law. While you eat you cen tell me who you bleddy well are."

"You know, you're just what I was looking for?" the rat-like man said. "Can I request diplomatic asylum, baas-lady?"

Johanna hid her surprise.

"You need to esk Inspector Pessimal thet. He's Enkh-Morpork in this place. End if it's Rimwards Howondaland you're running from, _I'll_ went to know why. So stert telking."

"The Boor country? No, baas-lady. It's the bloody Matabeles."

"So why do you want asylum from the Metebeles? We ere elready enticipating trouble from them. _You _ere more trouble I could do without."

The three newcomers had filled bowls and were eating. Inspector Pessimal frowned.

"It is true I am in command here on the personal authority of Lord Vetinari." he said. "But to receive political asylum you need to fulfil certain rigid qualifications. Firstly, you must be in fear for your lives."

"We're certainly that." the supplicant agreed, cheefully. "ain't that right, lads?"

The two native bearers looked up from eating and grinned agreement.

"Secondly, there must be clear proof that your actions and beliefs placed you in fear of death or torture."

"Definitely that." agreed the trader. "I believed I could get away with selling stuff to Prince Samuel that was... well, a bit below-par, if you see what I mean. Caveat emptor, squire. Now he's found out the merchandise was a bit iffy, he's after me."

Pessimal sighed.

"That's scarcely grounds for asylum..."

"He's after you people too." the trader said, urgently. "We heard in his camp that this place had been cleaned up. We was here a month or two back. Sold boot polish and bootlaces to the guards. Saw what was going on. Didn't like it one bit."

He shook his head.

"At least we slipped a few little things to the goblins. Bucksheesh. Made you ashamed to be human. Glad you people came along. Anyway. Fat Sam was on a take, right. Protection money. He got the cash, he protected the slavers. When the money dried up he wanted to find out why. Now he's coming for you. If you got a boat, you should sail."

Johanna nodded. She exchanged a look with Pessimal. Finally he said

"Offering services or information of worth to the desired host country is generally accepted as a worthwhile trade, when an application for asylum is under consideration. Thank you."

"How far behind you are they?" Johanna demanded.

"Two days, baas-lady. Maybe less. For some reason he's halted them in the jungle just over a day's march Hubwards of here. Sam may be a great fat greedy bastard, and don't tell him I said that, but he's shrewd. He got something cooking. Hopefully it won't be you. I do know one of his magic users got stitched up a treat and the troops all saw it. They're unhappy about advancing on you 'cos they think you've got better _muti. _They got spooked by the girl on the flyin' horse. One of your witches, right?"

"Ja." Johanna said, smiling humourlessly.

"I got to hear about _witches._ Wouldn't want to meet one. I hears as they're women you don't annoy. Met this sailor from Lancre once down in Zambingo."

"We've got _two_." Johanna said, exploiting the moment. "You'll meet them later. So. You're a trader?"

"Yes, baas-lady. Trade goods out of Zambingo and Port Smith-Rhodes. Mirrors, glass beads, medicines, textiles, brassieres for the ladies, there's quite a fashion for them in some parts, especially where the bloody Omnians have mission stations, crossbows, arrows _But never in Rimwards Howondaland, miss! That sort of thing's right out! _Preserved foodstuffs, all desirable commodities, sold at fair market rates and sometimes as loss-leaders, import-export across borders, taxes sometimes paid, and that's bashing me brains out with me own knobkerrie, I could give your lovely warrior over there a good price on a brassiere, discount for the plus-size figure..."

He indicated Precious Jolson. She scowled back.

Johanna raised a hand.

"I'm just betting. Correct me if I'm wrong. You go under the trading name of something like Bash-Me-Own-Brains-Out-With-A-Knobkerrie N'Dbhlwa, yesno?"

He beamed.

"Got it in one, baas-lady!"

There was noise in the sky. Everyone looked up. Bash-Me-Own-Brains-Out-With-A-Knobkerrie N'Dbhlwa sighed.

"That's what I wanted to see. Bloody beautiful! No chance I can talk to the pilots about exporting Howondalandian artefacts to the big city, is there?"

And the flying carpet-train started to land...

_**Assorted notes:**_

A _shabraque _is a leopard-skin saddlecloth favoured by cavalry officers of distinction, pedigree and good breeding. Lord Rust probably owns several.

Port Smith-Rhodes is a trading city on the widdershins coast of Howondaland. Originally a Fort, it shifted its name several places down the alphabet as part of a compromise with the Klatchians, who were unhappy about Rimwards Howondaland shifting its borders any further Hubwards. Relinquished by Rimwards Howondaland, the settlement is now, like Zemphis in the Central Continent, a free state and a hub for free trade and commerce. Johanna's mercentile venturer ancestor had much to do with its founding, and the Smith-Rhodes family (or at least the richer end) still has many commercial interests there.

_Namanahee:_ corrupted Arabic picked up by British and Commonwealth soldiers and now pretty obselete with the end of Empire. Means something like "no worries" or "she'll be right, mate".

Fire ants: Avoid. Definitely in South America but uncertain if they are African. Their sting hurts like hell.


	10. Newcomers to the tropical forest

**Darkest Howondaland Incident – another new part!**

_And we're back! _

_**Extract from "My Journey Through Howondaland and Klatch", by The Honourable Miss Lucinda Rust, Raven House (Licenced Graduate Assassin). **As previously, annotated for peer review purposes by interested persons from the Guild, whose marginal comments and footnotes will be identified by initials._

Those wretched drums were throbbing again. For some days now I had been pumping the exotically-named Mr Bash-Me-Own-Brains-Out-With-A-Knobkerrie N'Dbhlwa for information about this place. Some of his meanderings, I was sure, would be of use in escaping this dismal place and making my way to freedom and civilisation.

On this dreary morning, he waved me to silence as he listened to the drums intently, making a pencil note on grubby paper every so often. His two savage-looking native bearers were also intently listening.

"The lilangeli's down two points against the dinar, boss." one of the bearers said, a propos of nothing. N'Dbhlwa nodded and made a note.

"And the Quirmian _Bourse_ has ceased trading on the Matabele _klwacha_." said the other. "Issues of hyper-inflation, apparently. Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork has been asked to step in with a financial recovery package."

"Ah-huh." N'Dbhlwa said. "Worth knowing. Don't accept any _klwacha_ for now, boys. Insist on sound currencies."

As the drums died off, he nodded at me.

"Sorry about that, miss." he said. "Financial Report. Gotta stay on top of the ebbs and flows of international finance, haven't you?"

I nodded back and refrained from objecting to his peremptory manner. At that time and place, I _needed_ this man.

But as I tried to speak, the drums started up again. The tone was, if anything, more commanding and imperious.

N'Dbhlwa frowned, then grinned at me.

"Looks like your stay here's coming to an end, baas-lady." he said. "That's a reply to a message the chief here put out about you. Seems the Paramount Chief's taken an interest. He's sending a son down to come and look you over, maybe to escort you somewhere else. Paramount Prince is a couple of days away with his escort."

I felt gratified. My understanding is that the Paramount Chief is the undisputed ruler of all the Zulu tribes. My social standing had indeed been recognised if he was sending a son, undoubtedly the Crown Prince, to escort me out of this dismal place.

_{{Ha! Fat chance! My father has sons the way a dog has fleas. Most likely some idiot half-brother of mine, and I've got plenty, who annoyed Father and got a jungle mission as punishment. R N'K.}}_

_{{As one of the fleas, and on a punishment assignment in exile, that is a fair assessment. C N'E}}_

_{{I didn't mean **YOU**, Clement. You're rather bright and everyone's entitled to a favourite half-brother. Father left me many to choose from. R N'K}}_

* * *

><p>Olga Romanoff found herself flying over the rooftops of a city. The somewhat ramshackle arrangement that Ambassador van der Graaf had explained was the Hututo Township <strong>(1)<strong> gave way to more ordered and prosperous-looking suburbs, and then to the larger and most sober looking buildings of a city centre.

"See the big building with the dome, on the _Meintjeskop,_ the hill there? Staadtpraesident's palace. Now follow round to the right there, _Fehrsenstraat._ Big grey building in the middle, flet roof. Lend there. Bureau of Foreign Effairs."

Olga banked round, noting that as she flew lower, her Pegasus was attracting lots of attention in the streets below; people were looking up and pointing. _Can't be helped_, she thought. Then she grinned. _At least he's a white Pegasus. I wouldn't like to fly a black one in this country. _

Rainbow Dash landed with all four hooves on the flat roof. The Ambassador thanked her for a smooth landing, and smiled.

"Good to be Home egain." he remarked, dismounting.

"Looks like ye have trouble." Buggy Swires remarked. "Want me tae sairt it oot?"

The gnome nodded to the three armed guards who were rushing towards them. Van der Graaf shook his head, as he raised a hand. He spoke authoritatively in _Vondalaans. _Weapons were lowered and questions were asked. Olga could hear "Vetinari" and "Ankh-Morpork" in the reply. But the guardsmen looked at each other in apprehension when van der Graaf introduced his travelling companions and said "Samuel Vimes" in the middle of an introduction.

"Yes, laddie. We worrk for Sam Vimes. Aye." said Swires, cheerfully. "Ye might want tae think aboot hospitality. The beastie needs feedin' and waterin', for one thing."

"So does this pilot." Olga said. "It is beginning to be a hot day here."

"I will see you get refreshments." Van der Graaf promised them. "Please wait for me here. I will try not to be too long. You will be treated es guests. Thank you."

* * *

><p>Temporarily relegated to piloting a broomstick, Irena Politek landed at the camp with the convoy of flying carpets and helped in the back-breaking exercise of unloading and stowing the stores. With over twenty people and ample goblin hands, this did not take too long.<p>

She paused, straightened her back, and grinned at the audible consternation of the Special Plenipotentiary Representative of the Duchy of Quirm, who was visibly appalled at what she saw around her. Alice Band, Jocasta Wiggs, Ruth N'Kweze and Johanna Smith-Rhodes were all keeping straight faces, with some difficulty.

"It's not _thet _bed, Emmie." Johanna said, soothingly. "Or should I say, Your Excellency? Jocesta, show her to the women's quarters end help her unpeck? Thenk you."

"_Ma foi_." Emmanuelle said, lost for words. She could already feel sweat prickling at her in some very uncomfortable places.

"You may wish to dress down for the climate." Johanna added. "Take your cue from Ellice end Jocesta. But _perheps_ not to dress down es far es Ruth or Precious?"

"I think we are in no danger of that. Yet." Emmanuelle muttered. "I will retain the diplomatic sash, I think."

"And your swords." Alice added, practically. "We've had two intrusions on the camp so far. We expect more."

Johanna accepted a bundle of envelopes with thanks. She went with Inspector Pessimal to sort and discuss their respective briefings, updates and instructions.

Pessimal busied himself over a communication that bore the black seal ornamented with a single sans-serif "V". Johanna noticed he also had one from Sam Vimes. She opened an envelope in her uncle's handwriting and whistled as several small metal objects fell out and tinkled on the table.

Pessimal raised an eyebrow.

"Field promotion, I see." he remarked, mildly.

"_Ja._ Eleven years es a _Liutnant._ I was overdue. It eppears I em now a Major. Without heving hed to spend time es a Ceptain in between. I wonder if they hev beckdated a pay rise, or is thet too much to expect?"

She read the accompanying promotion notice and commission, frowned, and then busied herself attaching the new insignia to the appropriate parts of her tunic. The single five-sided pentagons denoting her new rank glittered, new and golden, against her dull camouflaged tunic. She frowned, and made a mental note to seek something to dull them, even if it was only black boot polish. They stood out like ornaments on a Hogswatch tree otherwise. The ones on each collar-end framed her neck too neatly for her comfort.

She sighed.

"I believe this is my oncle's way of reminding me I em a citizen of Rimwards Howondaland." she said to Pessimal. "I will try not to let those interests conflict with those of Enkh-Morpork."

"I understand you." Pessimal said. "Lord Vetinari has confirmed that I am in command of this expedition. Your position is merely that of security advisor subject to a broad commission from the Guild of Assassins. His Lordship has also suggested you act as liaison and negotiator with any representatives of your country who we may encounter. He sees advantages in that, and notes that the interests of our two nations converge in this matter and there may be no substantial disagreement. The Matabele, on the other hand, may pose a problem."

She nodded.

"_Ja._ A corrupt end venal prince. Becked by eight hundred spears."

"I understand Officer Romanoff has flown off on a detached duty." Pessimal said, mildly. "I am assured she will be returning here later in the day. It would be useful to have her patrol to the Hubwards, as the army to our north appears alarmed by her presence. Professor Stibbons helped too, last night. They are aware we are protected by magic and I understand in the two clashes we have had, our magic has proven stronger."

"_Ja._ I hev it in mind for Irena to fly to the Hubwards. Even on a broomstick she hes the power to frighten."

"All witches do." Pessimal said, reflectively. "It appears to be an inescapable part of their training. And anything that keeps their army from moving more closely towards us is an advantage."

Johanna nodded, and stood up.

"I must confer with my colleagues." she said. "Get petrols out. Medame Deux-Epées needs to be femiliarised with the ground. A job to do should stop her complaining ebout the heat end the _goggas_."

"I wonder how His Lordship persuaded her." Pessimal mused. "I understand this is not her chosen terrain for assignments."

Johanna grinned. After a moment, Pessimal allowed a smile to cross his face.

* * *

><p>The small patrol moved steadily Hubwards throughout the day. Sergeant Thiejssman set a fast pace, the fastest they could go without abandoning caution. Whilst the <em>Liutnant<em> and the three troopers moved with ease, they were hampered by the political officer, who was sweating and unfit and who complained about the pace.

"Not so far now, sir." the Sergeant said, encouraging him along with studied diplomacy. "Then we can rest, observe this intrusion from concealment, and make our plans."

He beckoned Private Tuits van der Maatals to move forward and take his turn at point, hacking a way with the jungle machete that all men carried. The Liutnant moved to the rear, watching and listening for any sign that they had been detected and were being followed. So far they appeared to be alone in the jungle, the only humans there. But there was that odd rustling again over to the left. He shrugged, trying to prevent twanging nerves from over-riding good judgement. _Probably only some sort of animal, a bush-pig or a moentjak... we're spooking the wildlife, which is to be expected. _

He observed the backs of his men. Private Dekker, short and wiry, a good experienced man in a fight. Private Maarlei, taller and confident, also a man with jungle experience. Tuits van der Maatals, younger and less experienced, but a fast learner. And the political, one of the Verkramp family who provided so many recruits for BOSS. A recent posting from the homeland, from a city beat; the officer had heard rumours that he'd fouled up a counter-insurrection operation. Something to do with exploding ostriches, he gathered. **(2)** Sent up-jungle as a punishment. _Well, we're stuck with him. Let's make the best of it._

* * *

><p>Alice Band looked disapprovingly at Johanna.<p>

"I'm not patrolling _anywhere near_ you while you're glowing with golden bling."**(3) ** she said, sternly. "Those things stick out a mile!"

Johanna tapped her new rank badges and conceded Alice had a point.

"_Ag_, I just need some bleck paint end a brush." she said.

Jocasta Wiggs passed her a tube of Grabpot Thundergust's black face-paint, She took it with thanks and set about distressing her major's rank insignia. After a while she started working on faces.

"This may be clown paint." she said, adding a few jagged smears of white to Alice's face. "But the idea is to break up the shape of your face so thet you look like nothing more than a pert of the foliage. Bleck, brown, green end white."

Emmanuelle had insisted on wearing a face mask. Johanna had insisted this be properly camouflaged for the jungle.

Heidi van Kruger, newly arrived, flicked an insect off her sleeve with a noise of distaste. It landed on Johanna, who deftly killed it.

"_Dermatopia humanis_". she said, exhibiting the corpse. "One of the _nestier_ goggas in this jungle. Never let it settle on bare skin. Or it bites end lays eggs. The meggots incubate under the skin end they are a problem to remove."

Emmanuelle shuddered, fastidiously. Johanna explained about the life cycle of the jungle botfly. In a way that she suspected was far too clinically detailed.

"I hed this on my first visit to the jungle." she said. "The _verdamte_ things either need to be cut out, or else you hev to let them pupate end draw them out with forceps. They eat the fat underneath the skin, by the way. To be on the safe side, if you get grazes or cuts or spots, come to me end I will check them."

"Is there any _good_ news?" Emmanuelle inquired. Johanna looked at her with sympathetic amusement.

"It is true thet meny things in the jungle cen kill you, injure you, disfigure you end leave you feeling inconvenienced." she admitted. "But with knowledge, you cen survive. I will partner you to Heidi end Precious, who both know the jungle. They will give you the fast course in jungle survivel."

"And so I feel reassured." Emmanuelle said, breathing deeply. "Very well, then. Miss van Kruger, you led me through a difficult situation before where you knew more than me. I trust your advice." **(4)**

"I will go with Ruth end Alice." Johanna decided. "Jocasta? Take a good crossbow. Ride pillion to Irena. I require an update on the army to our Hubwards. If you are shot at, return fire. Thank you."

And then an agitated goblin ran to her with information. It took a while to get an accurate account out of him. But Johanna smiled.

"Better I deal with this, I think. More guests are erriving."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Extract from "My Journey Through Howondaland and Klatch", by The Honourable Miss Lucinda Rust, Raven House (Licenced Graduate Assassin). <strong>As previously, annotated for peer review purposes by interested persons from the Guild, whose marginal comments and footnotes will be identified by initials._

Life in the squalid jungle village carried on in its dull and primitive way. I was being seriously troubled by the boil on the back of my neck which had grown in size, if anything. I understood it was where the drugged dart had hit me which had enabled the natives to overcome me and take me prisoner. But it had grown larger, if anything, and more painful. I also had the uneasy feeling that it was somehow moving as it grew. Finally, I overcame my pride and asked n'Dbhlwa to take a look at it. He lifted my hair aside, studied it, and whistled. One of his bearers joined him and also whistled. The sort of reverse whistle that artisans make when they are contemplating how much they can add to a bill for services. This was not good.

"Botfly, boss." the bearer said. "I'll go and get the kit, shall I?"

"Got to do a minor medical procedure, miss." N'Dhblwa said, after some time. "We'll have this out in two shakes of a hyena's hanging bits. Trust me!"

I assumed he was going to lance and disinfect the boil, and steeled myself for the discomfort. I assured myself that the blade was clean and medicinal alcohol was part of his "kit". And that they washed their hands first. Then I bowed my head and submitted myself. There was some pain and a little discomfort and I sensed blood trickling down my neck , then the smell of alcohol as it was cleansed away. And, to my horror, something _wriggling _as if it were resisting being extracted from my flesh.

"Little sods are covered in hooked barbs, miss... they don't like being shifted. Ah, here he comes. Ugly little bugger, Two or three of 'em in here, too..."

A fat worm-like thing, about an inch long, was held in front of me for inspection. I tried not to let horror show in my face. N'Dhblwa threw it into the fire with an expression of disgust. The whole appalling business was repeated twice more, then my wound was cleaned and a dressing applied.

"Botfly, miss. We all get them at least once. They find any open wounds you have and lay their eggs there." he explained. "Look, you've got no more boils like that on your person? I'd have to get one of the village women to do it, see, for decency, if they're anywhere your clothes cover..."

I reassured him that was the only infestation. I felt disgusted, but at the same time relieved. I also felt very dirty and wanted only to bathe.

_{{Any half-aware botfly laying its eggs on a Rust would welcome being dragged out with tweezers and burnt to death. I bet those maggots committed suicide. R N'K.}}_

_{{I can sympathise with Miss Rust, if only this once. I had my first and last botfly maggot when I was seventeen. I remember the disgust and the sense of crawling nausea vividly. And the scar is still there on my arm from removing it. JFS-R}}_

_{{Nobby had one once. It was all part of that thing he does with his boils, apparently. Damn thing shot out like a point three-oh-three bookworm and cracked the mirror. We had to have words. From the maggot's point of view, it was suicide. After all, it was crawling around on Nobby Nobbs. SV}}_

_{{I must ask Doctor Smith-Rhodes for an update on that breeding programme at the AMU. About creating a botfly larva large enough to inhume with seriously extreme prejudice. The Dark Council are in two minds about this and it can be argued that some concepts are both unseemly and take "extreme prejudice" a stage too far. For anyone. DD, Guild Master}}_

_{{The experiment is closed, Master. The Patrician advised me that botflies the size of small ponies would not be a responsible route for an accelerated breeding programme to take. He reminded me it was, of course, wholly my decision to make. I took the point and closed down all research. The notes, together with confirmed dead specimens preserved in formaldehyde, are in a double-locked safety box in the secure archives of the Black Library. JFS-R}}_

* * *

><p>The Minister of Foreign Affairs read the official letter from Vetinari, exhaled, and set it down on the desk with care, as if it were an unexploded bomb. He looked into space for a few moments, then pushed his chair back, stood up, and moved to the cabinet in the corner of his office.<p>

"Pieter, I need a drink." he decided. It was still only around nine in the morning. But this was a senior politician who had woken up anticipating a quiet day. Only to find a winged horse on the roof and his Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork knocking on his door demanding a discussion about what could well be an escalating war. The letter from Vetinari had been a courtesy detail. Pieter van der Graaf accepted a small glass of _witblits, _understanding, and deciding to call it a little celebration to mark his being Home again.

"Thet... little blue person... who errived with the flying horse." he said, grasping a certainty about the situation and focusing on that. "How do we racially clessify blue skin?"

Van der Graaf smiled, faintly. He'd been in Ankh-Morpork and before that elsewhere on the Central Continent for the best part of twenty years. His two daughters were as good as Ankh-Morporkian. He had learnt apartheid was not as black-and-white an affair as his compatriots thought it was. He paused, and considered. _Well, it is black and white. Obviously. But this country lacks people with blue skin. Or grey. Or green. Or various shades of yellow._

"Konstabel Swires is a gnome, sir." he said. "A people who grow to no more than five inches high. They are to be found in the forests of Skund, in the main. A _more eggressive_ relative is the NecMecFeegle of the Chelk Country, Lencre and Llemedos. I do not believe they are to be found on this continent. Es the blue is down to extensive skin tettoos end their skin underneath shows up, more or less, es white, I strongly suggest the Konstabel be treated as white for our purposes."

"Hmm. We have pygmies in the jungles." the minister remarked.

"Indeed, sir. Opinion is divided es to whether they are very short humans, or a local off-shoot of the Dwerf race. It is true the Bushmen of the Metahari Desert prefer crude exes end live in shellow roofed burrows in the ground. End they grow to no great height. Dwerf enthropologists on the Central Continent ere very excited by them."

The minister nodded.

"It was all so much _easier_ when we only had black and white people to deal with, Pieter. _Human_ people."

"Indeed, sir" van der Graaf said, poker-faced. He had seen Sam Vimes reporting to Vetinari. Being a capable diplomat, he had taken notes for interacting with his own superiors.

"And you strongly recommend we view the unrequested presence of Ankh-Morpork on our soil as a mercy mission to these... _goblins_... and consider it has the status of an informal Embassy."

"Yes, sir. I _do_." Van der Graaf said, forcefully. "Es we speak, diplomats from three other nations are being sent out to observe end speak for their countries. We hev _essets_ there. Two of our people. But this business with the slave farm is bed news for us. It is en emberresment to Enkh-Morpork. It was esteblished in our nation. Lord Vetinari suggests we jointly resolve the situation in a way thet minimises the demege. This to me is fair end precticable. "

"And the Matebele are marching Rimwards. Into our country." the Minister said.

Both men paused.

"Pieter. You say it took a little over _thirty minutes_ for Vetinari to trensport you from Ankh-Morpork to here?"

"_Ja_. It shows how keen he is for a bloodless resolution to this situation. I do not pretend to understend the megic involved, but the gnome Swires end the flying horse are key to elmost instantaneous trevel. I elso saw the Metebelian Embessador being sent beck to his home country by similar means. His instructions are to persuade his government to recall its troops end withdraw to their side of the border."

The minister looked out of the window over the city.

"Let's say they don't take that sage advice, Pieter. The young lady, the little blue fellow and the magic flying horse. How quickly could they get you to the barracks at Trekopje with sealed orders?"

* * *

><p>Olga Romanoff, on advice from a local Guard captain, had flown Rainbow Dash down to an ostler's at street level. She and Buggy Swires were taking their ease in the shade of a <em>stoep,<em> drinking iced tea brought to them by black servants, whilst the pegasus contentedly ate his way through a nosebag. Other members of the City Watch were holding back a growing crowd that wanted to see the miraculous winged white horse.

Olga took a long draft of the iced tea, finding it rather good, and reflected on how, even here, the name of Sam Vimes provoked local Watchmen to do a double-take and then start offering every assistance.

She thanked the black servant courteously for a refill. Hot sunny day, cold drink on ice, servants to do your every bidding... just like Home, in the summer. _Kulaks _do the work, the Zlobenian nobility relaxes. But she heard a particular word addressed at a black servant by a white master, and frowned. _These people are kulaks plus_, she thought. _Plus something else we don't do to our servants in Zlobenia. We're polite to them. _Olga crossed her fingers and added_ Most of the time, anyway, _then considered how to make her feelings known without being too obvious. And it was going to be a while before the Ambassador was finished with his consultations... messengers had come and gone to the Bureau of Foreign Affairs at great speed, and some obviously important people had arrived, with a certain pomp and lots of security. It was starting to look like a City Council meeting at the Palace. And as a Watchwoman, Olga had done her share of guarding at the Palace. She knew how a City Council meeting could drag five minutes of actual business out to three hours of blather and hot air. At least. _Time to kill. _She drained her glass and stood up.

* * *

><p>Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Epées was not at that moment a happy Assassin. While this was not good for anyone she would have reason to apply her professional skills to, there was a regrettable absence of people around her to take out her feelings on.<p>

She was crouched at the side of a narrow jungle path, with rotting vegetation squelching underfoot, sweat pooling in her back, armpits and other places, with the heavy unaccustomed weight of a jungle machete in her right hand. Her familiar swords hung at her waist, and she was privately resolved if it came to fighting to drop the machete, preferably bury it in an enemy so its loss would have some purpose, and then draw the weapons she knew best. She brushed a trailing length of creeper out of her face, and waited while Heidi van Kruger read the jungle sign. She could hear the sea, not far away here, and ached with desire for a swim, a bathe, anything to get clean again. Nameless things chittered in the jungle. As she waited for Heidi to give the all-clear and resume the patrol, she became mesmerised by a small multi-coloured frog, looking absurdly out of place, that had paused in its climb up a tree-trunk and which appeared to be regarding her with some interest. The frog was incredibly beautiful, she had to concede: patterned in brilliant yellow and red, glowing against the mossy green. She wondered why it wasn't camouflaged. Surely other things here in this wretched jungle _ate_ frogs?

And then Heidi was there, reaching over with her machete, using the flat side to gently but insistently prod the creature upwards, or at least away.

Emmanuelle raised an eyebrow to her former pupil, who sighed.

"Medeme. It's a _frog_. It lives in _trees. Tree-Frog. _I'm sure thet you know ebout tree-frogs?" Heidi asked, diplomatically. "nine inches eway from your unprotected skin?"

Emmanuelle thought about tree-frogs. Then her skin ran cold.

"_Thet _sort of tree-frog. Yes, Medame." Heidi said, with a little smile. "It hes no need to disguise itself. Other creatures know whet the red end yellow indicates. It would be the lest meal of _cuisse de grenouille_ for _enything_!"

"Merci." Emmanuelle said, weakly.

_Two hours ago I was in the City. Where it is civilised. And frogs' legs come on a plate with garlic sauce in a good Quirmian restaurant. I will never leave the City again._

Their patrol climbed steadily up an incline. As they left sea-level behind them, the damp rot underfoot lessened. Patches in the jungle cover appeared where they could look back and across over a blue sea. Scratching noises in the jungle were happening around them.

"Foraging goblins." said Precious Jolson. "They've worked out what's safe to eat and what isn't. Even some of the frogs."

"Safe for _goblins_ to eat." Heidi corrected her. "Which isn't to say _we _cen consume it."

They continued the climb, Emmanuelle learning far more than she wanted to find out concerning what could kill, what could maim, and what could merely disfigure or incapacitate. Heidi steered them in a round circle around an area of insect activity.

"Howondalandian bees." she explained. "Big, vicious end territorial. If two thousend sting you, you _die_."

"Thank you for pointing that out." Emmanuelle said, gravely.

"They evolved to fight beck egainst honey-bedgers." Heidi explained. "Human skin is therefore _nothing_ to them."

They were only about eighty feet above sea level, but it had taken well over two hours to get here. The three decided on a break, picking an area where coverage was thin and the sea was visible. But the sea, when they looked at it, was suddenly not empty.

"We need to get back down there." Precious said. "we might be needed."

"I agree." Heidi said.

The sound of angry buzzing bees grew louder and angrier in the distance.

"Probably goblins with a taste for honey." Precious shrugged. "Or for bees."

"Thick skinned little fellows, aren't they?" Heidi remarked.

But everyone was watching the sea.

* * *

><p>And the army patrol drew nearer and nearer to the estimated location of the illegal intrusion on Rimwards Howondalandian soil. The sergeant impressed the need for caution and slow careful movement. After discovering a fairly broad path that had fairly recently been travelled, nobody in the patrol needed to be told twice.<p>

"Bootmarks." the sergeant pointed out. "At most, the natives wear sandals or go barefoot. This print here. You can just make out the hobnails. So. Civilised people."

The officer nodded.

"What do you recommend?"

"We move forwards. Use this path. But cautiously. You never know..."

Then he raised and aimed his crossbow and snapped off a shot. The officer glimpsed a black blur darting from one side of the trail to the other. His sergeant was firing off orders.

The young officer realised his men had largely gone to cover. He grabbed the political officer, who was just standing there looking bewildered, and pulled him into the undergrowth at the side of the road.

"Armed native?" he asked the sergeant.

"Armed _black_." the political said. "I want that black either detained or killed!"

"As you say, sir" the sergeant said, politely. "Dekker! Get up that trail! She went over there to the right! Maarlei! Cover him!"

"Err... _she_?" the young officer inquired. He'd only seen a black blur.

"Definitely a woman, sir." the sergeant confirmed. It had most definitely been a native woman. He hadn't been _that _far away from civilisation and he wasn't in the Klatchian Foreign Legion. He knew what a woman looked like. "Black woman, armed with spear. And I tell you something else..."

This time, the young officer saw her clearly as she crossed the path again. Unhurriedly, she twisted in the air and caught two crossbow bolts on her shield; her flat, hide, shield. Then she passed into the undergrowth again.

_She's also remarkably attractive, _the young officer thought._ A very pleasing figure. _

"She's a bloody Zulu!" Sergeant Thiejssman swore. "What's one of _those_ doing here, on the Matabele frontier?"

"Whatever she's doing here, we need to find out." the officer agreed, and indicated to his men to try and follow.

"They don't come in singles, sir." his sergeant advised him. "Where you get one Zulu, you get hundreds. Usually. I advise caution."

"So do I." said a voice from behind them. It was a woman's voice. Speaking in _Vondalaans. _

"Turn around. Slowly." the woman said to them. "Please point your weapons to the side. _Dankie_. I believe we need to speak."

The patrol turned.

"We have been watching you for some time." the woman said. "I needed to draw your attention."

She was dressed in pretty much the same uniform as they were with a hat in the same cut. She was standing in the middle of the trail with a crossbow slung loosely under one arm and her right hand resting on the hilt of a machete. Nothing was overtly threatening, but the members of the patrol knew if they tried to offer a fight it was likely to be a very unwise thing to do. She exuded the confidence of one who has got everything sorted out to her own satisfaction, for one thing.

The young officer looked at the red hair visible underneath the woman's headwear. Then he groaned and said

"Oh, _shit_!"

"Sir?" his sergeant said, not understanding.

"Shit. Oh shit."

The officer took his cap off and slapped his palm into his face.

The red-haired woman shook her head. She stepped forward.

"Julian, is thet eny wey _et ell_ to greet femily?" she demanded. "I recognised _you_ from four miles down the treck!"

"Mr Smith-Rhodes, sir?" the sergeant said, perplexed.

"Lower your weapons, men." Julian Smith-Rhodes commanded. "This lady is my cousin. She's family."

Johanna smiled.

"Anything else about me you recognise, _Liutnant_?" she asked, placing stress on his rank.

"And she's a Major. She outranks me." he added, reluctantly.

"_Gut._ Now fall in and follow me beck to the cemp. You're not prisoners end you're in no danger, but I would eppreciate it if you made the weapons safe. Thenk you."

Sergeant Thiejssman made his mind up.

"Unload weapons! Safety catches on! Do as the Major instructs you!"

"He touched the brim of his cap to Johanna.

"At your disposal. Major. Sir. Ma'am."

Then he asked

"You are _the_ Johanna Smith-Rhodes? The woman who led a raid into the Zulu country and killed one of their war chiefs? The one they called The Red Death?"

"Same one, _ja._" she said, modestly.

Sergeant Thiejssman extended his hand. She took it.

"I've always wanted to meet you. A honour. Sir. Err. Ma'am... er, Major."

"_Major _will suffice. Tell me, I last saw Julian when he was perhaps fifteen or sixteen. His parents brought him to Ankh-Morpork on a visit. How is he shaping up as an officer?"

She took pleasure in watching her relative's ears redden. One of the troopers sniggered.

"Capably, _Ma._.. Major. I have no worries about him. But your family has a good name. A _very_ good name."

Johanna nodded. It made sense. Julian, from the upmarket and socially prestigious end of the Smith-Rhodes family, would be serving in the Army, would retire with a suitable rank, and go into government, either as a politician or as a part of the Civil Service. The very name assured rapid preference. Smith-Rhodes had served the nation for a long time and on occasion had led it. Coming from the downmarket end of the clan, Johanna had no such ambitions. It led to a certain relaxed independence of mind.

Alice Band took the opportunity to come out of concealment, her hunting bow strung but with no arrow nocked. She assessed the newcomers, taking care to direct a half-smile at Julian Smith-Rhodes.

Johanna reverted to Morporkian for Alice's benefit.

"This is my colleague, Miss Elice Band. We egreed she would cover me when I broke cover to speak to you. If eny of you hed shown sign of fight, she would have put en errow through a leg or en erm. My insurance policy."

Julian took a long breath.

"Johanna... may I call you Johanna? Thank you. The Zulu girl we saw. Was she anything to do with you?"

"_Ja._ Like myself end Elice, Ruth is a greduate of the Enkh-Morpork Guild of Essessins. You will hev heard of the Guild? I requested her to make herself visible to you end distrect your ettention. This enabled me to move into position behind you. None of you wetched your rear, by the way. You were lucky we meant you no herm."

"You mean you brought an _ermed bleck_ into Rimwards Howondaland?" Liutnant Verkramp demanded. "A _Zulu_? Do you realise thet's a cepital crime? Treating with the enemy?"

Johanna glared at the political. She was fairly sure this man was related to the Verkramp who was political officer in Ankh-Morpork. And _he_ was certifiably crazy.

"Ruth N'kweze is a Zulu, yes." she said, coldly. "She is of the Royal House end hes authority to speak for her father. Which in this place grents her diplometic privileges. But first end foremost, Liutnant Verkramp, she is a Guild member end is here es a Guild member. Errest her – if you cen – end the Guild will send people to discuss your ections with you. Elso, she is a Special Constable of the Enkh-Morpork City Watch. She is stending on _de fecto_ Enkh-Morporkian territory. Inconvenience her with threats of errest, end you will elso come to the notice of Lord Vetinari end if thet is not enough, thet of Sir Semuel Vimes. You _hev _heard of Sir Semuel?"

"Still care to try that arrest, Mr Verkramp?" Alice Band added, pleasantly. Without her having seemed to move very much, a nocked arrow was at her bow, pointing towards but not at the political officer. It was almost but not quite unthreatening.

Verkramp blinked and backed down. The soldiers had heard the name of Sam Vimes. They'd heard about the Guild of Assassins. Bad news travels a long way quite fast. They tried to look as unthreatening as possible.

Julian Smith-Rhodes shook his head and took charge.

"I think we can take it as read that there is an Ankh-Morporkian diplomatic mission on our soil." he said. "Within the boundaries of that diplomatic compound. Ankh-Morpork may invite whoever it chooses, including representatives of nations we would not normally allow into our country. I do not have enough men to challenge that by force and if I were to try to do so, I'd be provoking a massive international incident. The very thing our commanding _kolonel_ instructed me to avoid. So until I get either further orders or ideally reinforcements, I'm prepared to accept the hospitality of Ankh-Morpork and learn more about what's been happening here. As we were instructed to. And as military officer in command of this unit, that's an _order,_ Liutnant Verkramp. Thank you."

Johanna smiled.

Julian, your father would be _proud_ of you." she said.

"Well, I'd quite like to meet Miss N'Kweze." he said, frankly. "And I'd far prefer to do that in a place where we aren't expected to try and kill each other. Do I address her as Princess Ruth, by the way?"

"Only on first being introduced to royalty." Alice advised him, with a straight face. "You do not speak first and wait to be introduced, as you're in uniform you come to attention and salute, and after addressing her on the first occasion as "Your Royal Highness", a degree of social informality is then permitted."

"I'll bear that in mind." Julian said, seriously, then he looked at Alice. "Wait... you're being ironic, aren't you?"

"Ah. A fast learner." Alice remarked. "It must run in the family."

"Just call her "Ruth". Johanna advised him. "Oh... end there are certain words used to bleck-skinned people by some people of our netionality. I cennot prevent any of you using them to Ruth. But es she is a trained Essessin, I would not edvise it. You will elso meet other bleck-skinned Ankh-Morporkians. I edvise you to treat them with the same sort of courtesy you would give to a white person. I hope I em clearly understood here."

* * *

><p>And Olga Romanoff took Rainbow Dash on a circuit of the city from perhaps eight hundred feet up. The two children were excited to see their city from so high and were chattering excitedly, pointing out familiar places.<p>

Olga smiled, content. It didn't matter that one was white and one black. They were both getting a ride to remember. She had made that abundantly clear when she had suggested taking a limited number of children up for a ride, as a sort of goodwill gesture from the people of Ankh-Morpork. On each ride, one black, one white. Or I take nobody at all. The local Watch had gone diplomatically deaf. A word sounding like "hechsen" had been spoken. A lot. She supposed it was a local word for "witch". And people here had come out of the Central Continent with long memories, which presumably included ideas like "witches play by their own rules" and "never annoy a witch". And perhaps "not a witch who works for Sam Vimes."

She landed after two lazy circuits of the city, Rainbow Dash having glided on some useful thermals rather than actively beaten his wings. It was easy to glide in a hot sky. It saved energy. She smiled as the two boys carried on excitedly chattering about their experience, then shook hands and walked to the black and white sides of the safety barrier respectively. _Changing minds. Two at a time. _She asked for the next two, girls this time.

* * *

><p><strong>(1) <strong>The**_ HUbwards-byTUrnwise TOwnship. _**A similar neologism named Soweto: the South-Western Township – in Johannesburg.

**(2) **Exploding ostriches are a minor plot point in Tom Sharpe's South-African set farce **_Riotous Assembly_**, in which political officer Liutnant Verkramp completely fails to get a grip on terrorist activity in the city of Piemberg. Hardly surprising, as he is responsible for most of it in an attempt to draw out anti-apartheid protestors.

**(3) **Bling Blingsson is a very successful Dwarf jeweller in Ankh-Morpork. His name has become synonymous with gold-inlaid armour, sword-hilts, funeral axes and other status-markers that tell the world a Dwarf wearing Bling is on the down.

**(4) **See my story **_Nature Studies,_** where Emmanuelle was forced into assisting in the recapture of large wild animals, something about which she had hitherto cherished her ignorance. Heidi, then a student, had very tactfully advised her teacher in how to proceed.


	11. The boats! The boats!

**And we return to Darkest Howondaland**

_War is brewing. Ankh-Morpork has insinuated a diplomatic mission on Howondaland for some very good diplomatic and (sort of) humanitarian reasons, on the site of a slave farm instituted by the soon-to-be-late Gravid Rust. In a remote jungle corner of Howondaland on the borders of two nations who do not see eye-to-eye with each other, the slave farm escaped notice until Sam Vimes stirred things up in the distant Shires. Now the two warring nations are beginning to eyeball each other across that disputed and formerly demilitarised border. It is the job of the Ankh-Morporkian delegation to make sure one side, or preferably both, blinks first. And quite a few other nations have a legitimate interest here…_

_The former slave farm. Morning. _

Jocasta Wiggs looked down at the broomstick, hovering in neutral about three feet off the ground. Irena Politek made final adjustments to the apparatus clamped to the stick. Jocasta noted it looked longer and sleeker than the average witch's broomstick, and it exuded a power and a grace she did not expect to see. She was relieved it had seats, or at least basic saddles, back-to-back, about a third of the way down the staff.

"One of our development models." Irena explained. "The Messers Schmidt, out Dwarf technicians, came up with this. It's their Me 110 model, by the way."

Jocasta nodded, politely.

The mounting clamps firmly to the stick_, here_. At the top there's a gimbal sort of apparatus allowing you to angle the crossbow, at least in theory, through three hundred and sixty in most directions. Try not to shoot through the bristles, if you can. We haven't got a working interrupter device yet that stops you shooting through bristles. We know if you take them out in flight, after a while the whole stick flies like a rock."

Jocasta analysed the crossbow mounted to the firing pole. She noted she could adjust its height to suit her. It looked clumsy and unwieldy, with the large box mounted above.

"Gravity-fed repeater?" she asked. She'd seen these at the Guild. Assassin practice frowned on repeaters. It was too close to _gonnes_, for one thing, and it implied that you'd been unacceptably careless with your first shot, if you had to fire a second closely afterwards. And they were _unreliable_. She decided to take her pistol crossbows with her as back-up.

"Never had to use them in combat." Irena admitted. "But we've tried them on the ranges. When they work, anything they hit gets _shredded_. I'd love to meet an Elf up there when I'm flying one of these!"

"I should imagine they'd rip great big holes in a flying carpet, too." Jocasta said, politely.

Irena nodded.

"That's part of the thinking." She said. "Lord Vetinari wanted guarantees we could spoil another Klatchian invasion. And he wanted the Klatchians to know about it."

Jocasta sighed, and swung herself into the gunner's seat. It was the first time she'd flown on a broomstick, she was behind an unfamiliar weapon, she'd be firing it from the air, it could get unreliable, and there was the outside possibility there were other, hostile, air users up there.

She felt the bump as Irena got into the pilot's seat.

"Just one last thing…" Irena said. A long leather belt was passed to her.

"We strap ourselves in. Back to back."

_Ah well. All part of the day for a working Assassin…. _

The broomstick shot off into the air. As the ground fell away, Jocasta yelped.

_Pratoria, Rimwards Howondaland. Mid-morning. _

Olga Romanoff landed her Pegasus smoothly into the street. She noted there was a reception committee of serious-looking men waiting for her, but ignored them until she'd helped the two children down to street level. Both the black and the white child looked at the men who were waiting, looked at each other, then ran back to their respective segregated areas of the barriers. Very quickly.

"Yes?" Olga invited the uniformed man who looked sternest and most official. He scowled back at her. He was red-faced and his hair was shorn almost to the scalp. His uniform was plain khaki-brown and carried green piping. The _sjaembok _whip on one hip was a discourtesy detail.

"Ceptain de Brijss. Bureau of State Security. You are the person known as Air Konstabel Olga Romanoff of the Enkh-Morpork City Wetch?"

"I am that person. Yes." Olga replied, cooly, putting haughty Zlobenian nobility into her voice. She wondered if she ought to emphasise her status for further counter-intimidation, but decided that as she had left Zlobenia and effectively renounced her nobility for freedom, this would be hypocritical.

"By order of the Bureau of State Security. You are to desist in further mixed-race flights on your… _enimel._ I em edvising you thet you are in contravention of the Racial Separation Ects end thet eny further unauthorised aerial ectivity over this city will be considered a breach of public order law. You may continue with demonstration flights, but with white children _only_."

Olga sighed. She wasn't surprised, but was relieved. It gave her a chance to rest her mount. She had been wondering how to stop without disappointing the waiting children. Now she'd been given a perfect opportunity. She turned to face the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I had been looking forward to providing more of your children with the experience of flight." she said, in a commanding voice that carried. "But unfortunately, the gentlemen here from your Bureau of State Security have ordered me to cease and desist."

She allowed the cries of disappointment to fade, and added

"Captain de Brijss here is _very firm_ on this matter. I have no desire, as a guest, to break your nation's laws. So I'm very sorry, but I must stop in accordance with his instructions. Thank you."

She nodded at the BOSS officers, one of whom was now flushing an even deeper brick red, and returned to the _stoep,_ leading Rainbow Dash.

"Nicely said, lassie." Buggy Swires nodded at her. "See yon big eejit with the cropped skull? Just gi' me the word and I'm claimin' him for ye. For gainsaying a hag."

The gnome's voice carried too.

She shook her head.

"For offending a _hechsen_?" she said, knowing the acquired Vondalaans word would carry. "Thank you, but we should be good guests in this country. _Pittin' the heid in_ on one of their secret policemen might be seen as discourteous, Buggy!"

"Pity." Buggy shrugged. "Ye ken, their word "_hechs_" sounds a wee bittie like "_hag_"? Just sayin'!"

Olga grinned. They kept a wary eye on the local Watchmen in the street, who seemed intimidated by the BOSS presence, but none of the local authorities appeared keen on pressing charges. And they waited, noting the Foreign Ministry was opening its doors to more and more dignitaries.

* * *

><p>The patrol aborted, Heidi van Kruger discreetly shepherded Emmanuelle down the jungle trail towards the camp, allowing Precious Jolson to widen the path with a combination of her broad shoulders and a widely-swung machete. Foliage, creepers, and fairly thick growth surrendered to her blade. Stealth was no longer the issue: speed was. Heidi was happy for the trail to be obvious to anyone who might follow: the key word was "open". Periodically, Heidi lopped off a stray branch or creeper herself, just for the look of the thing. Small creatures fled in panic at their approach.<p>

And every so often they watched the boats as they drew nearer.

"If they are unfriendly." Emmanuelle said. "Then the more weapons we can deploy, the better."

"I egree, Medeme." Heidi said, politely. "Our first stop should be to collect crossbows end blowpipes. Unfortunately we are cerrying none."

"By the time we get back down there those things will have beached." Precious said. "I hope Johanna and the others have seen them too."

"Your people?" Emmanuelle asked, politely. Precious gave her a slightly unfriendly look.

"My people are Ankh-Morporkian." she said, with emphasis. "If you mean people of my ethnicity, then they're Matabele, yes."

"Ah. I apologise."

"None taken." Precious said. "I will add they're taking a chance on a calm sea, though. Those are river craft. Must be urgent if they're chancing it like this."

"How meny warriors, do you think?" Heidi asked.

"Hard to tell from here. Assuming the men at the oars are also warriors and not slaves or impressed natives, with that number of boats, perhaps a hundred. If the ones in the middle who aren't rowing are the only fighting warriors, maybe forty or fifty." Precious said.

Emmanuelle looked up.

"Do they fly broomsticks too?" she asked.

The others looked up.

"That's one of ours, I think. Looks like Air Police. Got to be Olga or Irena. Woman on the pillion looks Assassin, though. All in black."

"And operating a very large crossbow." Emmanuelle observed. "Which is for the good."

Precious grinned.

"Mr Vimes absolutely forbids them using those air crossbows in the City." she observed. "Olga and Irena were testing them at the Butts. Caused no end of trouble. Even the Patrician said he prefers people using bows at the Butts do it from ground level."

"End they didn't." Heidi half-asked. Precious shook her head.

"What do _you_ think? Flying in low and strafing the target from a variety of heights and approaches… one or two of those arrows kind of _over-shot._ People on the Morpork Docks side were kind of surprised."

"But in principle they could sink a ship." Emmanuelle mused. She'd heard the stories.

"Oh, yes! Captain Jenkins was relieved none of the arrows hit below the waterline…"

"I am getting happier about this by the moment, _mes amies_!" Emmanuelle said, smiling for the first time. "And that is Jocasta Wiggs up there. I am sure of it. She is capable with projectile weapons. And capable of imaginative thought."

They carried on making their way downwards. The broomstick fell into a steady figure-of-eight orbit above the approaching boats.

* * *

><p>The large conference room at the Bureau of Foreign Affairs heard Pieter van der Graaf's report, and his considered opinion of the situation, in silence. As he stood back, there was muttering and the beginnings of a dozen separate conversations. But the first to speak loudly was Hendrik van de Berg, Minister of State Security, commander-in-chief of the BOSS apparatus. The long, lean, politician, who also held General Officer rank in the armed forces, made it clear that the Hubwards enemy had broken the Windhoek treaty and called for full determined war with the Matabele. He also observed that it was a good thing that the Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork had returned of his own volition, as we could now officially claim to have recalled our Ambassador for consultations – the highest expression of protest available short of breaking off diplomatic relations with ever-perfidious Ankh-Morpork.<p>

For Vetinari to have insinuated his people and to have made a formal claim on even the smallest corner of Rimwards Howondaland was a provocation and an insult and those verdamte people ought to be detained and imprisoned. Any Rimwards Howondalandian citizens among them were to be declared traitors, and duly impeached.

"Now wait a _minute_…"

Another Minister stood up and glared at van de Berg. This one had listened in Vondalaans, but preferred to speak Morporkian. He was fairly tall, and time had softened striking red hair to a muted gingery-grey. He and van de Berg stood on opposite sides of the fault-line that ran through White Howondaland, between Morporkian and Kerrigian.

The Staadspraesident, well over seventy, a man respected by both sides, raised his head.

"I believe a member of your family is among the Ankh-Morporkian contingent, Charles?" the President said, mildly.

"Indeed, sir." Charles Smith-Rhodes, the Interior Minister, sighed resignedly. Certain members of his family were admirable in their way, and he had a fondness for the wretched girl, but she could be a _problem_…

"I resent the implication that a Smith-Rhodes could now, or in any way, be a party to actions intended to weaken the Staadt or would consent to such action." He said. "This is also an insinuation against not only myself but also against Ambassador van der Graaf, who is a valued and respected family member by marriage."

He nodded at the Ambassador, who acknowledged him.

"Oh yes. _Femily._" Van de Berg said, with just the right edge. "Our first colonial _femily. _Who despite this being a Republik, ruled es if it were a _kingdom."_

"Our family has indeed been at the forefront of this nation, yes." Charles agreed. "Since before independence from Ankh-Morpork."

"We have files to thet effect." the BOSS head agreed. It very carefully did not sound like a threat. "Comprehensive files. Going beck for many years."

Charles Smith-Rhodes scowled and took a step towards him. The President shook his head. Charles stepped back.

"Miss Johanna Smith-Rhodes is a capable and very intelligent young woman." Charles repeated, feeling a familial need to defend a bloody nuisance. "She fought loyally and with distinction in our wars. She survived training delivered by the Guild of Assassins. She is a respected and senior member of that Guild. It is true that Lord Vetinari, insofar as he esteems _anybody,_ holds her in good regard. While it is true that she is in the Ankh-Morporkian encampment, both the Ambassador and Lord Vetinari regard her as the ideal person to represent the interests of this nation in the current somewhat _confused_ situation. She will not forget she is a loyal citizen and in the current circumstances, is a positive asset. And the Ambassador took the precaution of advancing her in military rank in the Reserve and recalling her to active service. So if needs be, she can be placed under military command by a superior rank. She and Miss Heidi van Kruger both."

"Oh yes. miss van Kruger. This country invested heavily in her being educated and trained by the Assassins' Guild. But I note that after graduating she is in no hurry to return and enter Staadt service." the President remarked. "Anybody would suspect she does not _want_ to join the Bureau of State Security as a field operative!"

Van de Berg scowled. He changed the subject.

"Funny how your Bureau of Interior Affairs did not realise anything amiss was going on within the borders of our land." he said.

Charles Smith-Rhodes turned to the sound of the voice. He was aware he was on weak ground here. _He should have known_. His gaze took in and passed over van de Berg.

"Yes." He said. "I concede fault there. My intelligence chief will be spoken to. As, no doubt, the Bureau of State Security will speak to theirs, as they were equally ignorant."

"We can deal with issues of fault or blame later." the President said, smoothly. He'd been Staadtspraesident for a long time. He knew how to preside over his politicians. "The immediate issue is that without any of us knowing, a slave farm was set up within the borders of our nation and sentient creatures worked to death in foul conditions. What do we know of these _goblins_? Never mind, a question for later. Our enemies will use this as propaganda against us. There is clear evidence the Matabeles knew and were complicit in this outrage. We can use that. In the meantime, a third party has stepped in, citing humanitarian relief and a sincere desire to put things right, and placed a mission on what is technically and marginally our sovereign soil.

"Which is ours by default. We wanted it so much that we left no troops there and not even the hardiest of a hardy people wish to colonise it. It remains jungle, swamp, and a deserted coast. Any war over it is, to me, a war over pricked national pride. Like two bald men fighting over a comb**(A)**. The question is – what can we constructively do about it? _Without_, Charles, Hendrik, falling into fist-fighting between ourselves. Thank you so _very _much."

He paused.

"Get the Ankh-Morporkian Ambassador in here, will you? He should have had time by now to digest the briefings and instructions that Ambassador van der Graaf so kindly brought for him."

* * *

><p>As the broomstick rose, the two people on it could see further than those at ground level. Irena and Jocasta were first to see the flotilla of boats heading down the coast, keeping within sight of land and carefully keeping out of arrow-range.<p>

Irena whistled.

"Change of plan, Jocasta." she said. "Got pencil and paper? Good. Write a note. Boats sighted. At least six large outrigger canoes. Estimated a hundred armed warriors. Investigating. Got that? Now find something heavy to tie it to. Something they can see as it comes down."

They quickly doubled back over the camp, attracted attention, and dropped the weighted message. A Watchman ran to collect it.

Irena, satisfied the message had been delivered, then accelerated directly towards the small fleet. Like any ship at sea, the boats were attracting attention from foraging seabirds hopeful for something to scavenge. Jocasta found herself batting off an interested seagull. Affronted, it flew away, but without first adding a courtesy splash of nearly-white to her Assassin cloak. Irena had advised she wear an extra layer or two as it got colder at height.

The broomstick settled into a lazy figure-of-eight circuit over the boats. People aboard could be seen pointing up. Jocasta, irked by the seagull, settled the stock of the repeating crossbow into her shoulder and checked the gravity-feed was free and unblocked. She took a few practice aims, largely at seagulls, remembering to compensate for relative movement as if firing from a moving horse, a skill Alice Band had taught her. She noted the largest of the boats, the one the others seemed to be escorting, was sitting lower in the water. The reason appeared to be some sort of elevated throne, which had one of the largest, fattest, black men she had ever seen sitting on it. She recalled meeting All Jolson and wondered if Matabele men all ran to a degree of fat in later life. But this man was big enough for two and a bit All Jolsons. She also noted the lionskin cloak and ornate head-dress. _Some sort of chief_?

"Don't fire until they fire on us." Irena requested. "If they do, I'll try to fly level for just long enough for you to get a few on target. But we're not here to start a war, unfortunately. Oh, and keep watching the sky. Just in case. We know they've got flight-capable wizards, and I don't want any getting behind us or coming out of the sun at us."

_Out of the sun? _Jocasta wondered._ Is that some sort of witch thing? _

And then the ratty little man sitting at the dignitary's feet stood up in the boat and pointed a stick of some sort…

Jocasta was taken by surprise as the broomstick swerved and banked, and was momentarily disoriented as sky and sea and land shifted. She glimpsed a fast-moving red and yellow flame and felt, briefly, the passage of something hot. She heard spiky Far Überwaldean swearing as Irena steadied the broom.

"_Do predeli_! I recognise that little bastard!" her pilot said. "It's the same bloody little _**píčus**_ who fireballed me the other day! _He hurt my Pegasus! 1__**(1)"**_

"Errr… I understand, but don't do anything too hasty? Please?" Jocasta urged, sensing her life now depended on a very angry person from Zlobenia.

Irena seemed to calm.

"You're right. Hold the arrows. This is a magic-user's battle and I promised him some. I'm just going to put the stick on autopilot for a few minutes. I'll be somewhere else. Don't worry, you're fairly safe…"

And then Irena slumped in her seat and her head drooped. Jocasta yelped in terror.

* * *

><p>"Stand back! Good grief! <em>Move away from there!" <em>

Then, satisfied none of the over-eager goblins was standing in the wrong place, the axe made its final swing. The wielder of the axe stood back, in a sense of species-pride that the falling tree had dropped _exactly_ where it was meant to go. Excited goblins were already swarming over it, some picking out long straight boughs that could become weapons and axe-handles. Most were picking off swarming panicked insects, reptiles and small animals that were running from the wreck of what had once been home, and were industriously eating or despatching them.

Cheery Littlebottom wiped a rivulet of sweat from under her helmet-brim, and grinned to herself. The Special Representative of the Low Monarch of the Dwarfs had been disregarded on her arrival, apart from a few words of "Hi, Cheery, be with you in a few minutes when there's time" from people who knew her. She had heeded advice about taking off a few layers and was currently only wearing three vests underneath the gold-plated chainmail that proclaimed her as a Dwarf diplomat. Even so, it was still uncomfortably hot…

With nothing else to do, she had dropped off her pack, and gone exploring. Only to be surrounded by excited goblins tugging at the hem of her sensible leather skirt and calling

_M's Dwarf? M's Dwarf? Help with weapons? Please? _

And for the past three hours, she'd been showing the goblins how to select good wood that they could convert into basic spears, cudgels, and crude hand-axes of a sort that could club rather than cut. There had been a distressing absence of stone, although the beach was offering up occasional large nodules. Under her guidance, the goblins had learnt about fault-lines, and could now split a rock by hammering along them with other rocks. She also noted that old tin cans from the midden were being reshaped into wicked-looking barbed things. Cheery shuddered. She hadn't taught them _that._ Quite a few goblins were now toting spears festooned with sharp metal barbs at the business end. These people were _serious _about not being made into slaves again…

Cheery did a double-take as several goblins ambled by with machetes almost as big as they were. She wondered where they'd got them from.

And then the broomstick returned and circled and dropped a message…

* * *

><p>"Well, little Olga." said an amused voice in Zlobenian. Olga Romanoff, who'd been dozing in the midday heat, looked up. Despite the heat, the speaker was wearing an impeccable white uniform with a full chest of medals and ornate sashes. He was supported by two mean-looking Cossacks in full fur caps, who wore the long heavy cavalry sabre on one hip and the menacing, but coiled, <em>knout <em>whip on the other side. Their body language said to the nervous-looking Howondalandian Guardsmen who were nominally escorting _them_

_So you want a whip comparison contest, our good Zlobenian knouts against your Howondalandian sjaemboeks? It would be our pleasure to show you what a twenty-foot knout can do against a four-foot sjaemboek. Shame you aren't allowed anything bigger on Watch service, **nichevo**? _

"You've been up to a little mischief here, I see? BOSS are not happy with you."

"So I have been told." Olga said, politely.

"Not that you will thank me for it, but I mentioned to the Interior Security Minister you are Her Highness Olga Romanoff, of the House of Romanoff, daughter to the Grand Duke Nikolas Romanoff."

"Was." Olga said, pointedly. "Father cut me off when he heard what I was doing."

"He will come around. Fathers generally do. He has promised to send no further supernatural creatures after you, by the way.**(2)** The Great Babyushka taught you well, it seems."

"Mistress Weatherwax? I was privileged."

"Indeed. And if reciting your title was not enough, I also mentioned to BOSS that you currently work for Sam Vimes. They agreed that was a point worth considering. But do not provoke these people, Olga. Not in their own country."

"Mistress Weatherwax suggested I go to the City and work for Sam Vimes." Olga said, shrugging. "She said there's a witch for everything, Irena and I were good at broomsticks, and Mr Vimes had asked her if she knew a couple of flying witches who might like it in the Watch. So he got us**."(3)**

"Indeed." The Zlobenian Ambassador said, nodding. "Now if you'd graciously permit the little blue fellow to show my men your mount – Cossacks are fascinated with horses, it's in their blood, and this one _really_ fascinates them – you can tell your old uncle _exactly_ what's going on. They're still debating in there, and they aren't letting mere Ambassadors in at the moment."

* * *

><p>Inspector Pessimal was concerned at the new development. Seven of the available Assassins were out on patrols of one sort or another, including Johanna, and his immediate strength consisted of one Wizard, one Dwarf, six or seven Watchmen, two Matabele prisoners on parole, whose loyalties would be suspect if no witches were there to remind them they'd pledged support, or at least neutrality. And an indeterminate number of goblins. And he couldn't help noticing that every Goblin he could see was now toting some sort of weapon, If they chose to play catch-up or to point out they were taking over camp administration, there wasn't much he could do about it.<p>

He considered releasing and arming the former camp guards, pointing out this could be their fight too. Then thought better of it. The goblins would slaughter them, for one thing.

Gloomily, Pessimal realised how open they were to attack from the sea. Johanna had acknowledged this needed attention, but she had felt erecting defences on the landward approaches was more important as this was the likely method of attack. With limited skilled manpower, defending the beaches had been left till last. And once on the beach, an attacker could roll up the camp from the seaward side. There were low bluffs to the rimwards, he acknowledged, but coming up from the sea was a matter of climbing up the low gradient until the high-water mark was reached, where sand became undergrowth. And then on into the camp proper. And with all his air assets now diverted or returned to Ankh-Morpork, there was little he could do there either. Wee Mad Arthur had returned with the flying carpets to set up the next delivery. Olga's Pegasus was elsewhere. One of the two pegasii had been wounded in combat and was back home, resting. He sighed.

"Looks like you're in a spot of bother, District Commissioner." a voice said at his ear. "Need a native advisor?"

"I'm in your hands, Mr N'Dbhlwa". Pessimal said.

* * *

><p>"Thank you, Mr Ambassador." The Staadtspraesident said. Sir Sebastian Venturi, Ankh Morpork's Ambassador to Rimwards Howondaland, stood back in relief. Some of the questioning had been positively <em>hostile<em>.

"So the Quirmians have an interest, as the goblin peoples were forcibly and illegally abducted from land Quirm claims as part of the Duchy. Although there is doubt about this. Quirm has therefore despatched a diplomat to this encampment. And… the Low Monarch of the Dwarves has proclaimed that the goblin peoples can enjoy full status and rights accorded to sentient peoples should they live under Dwarf authority. The Diamond King of the Trolls has decreed likewise. Don't tell me _they've_ sent a diplomat…"

"Too hot, sir." Sir Sebastian assured him. "But the Diamond King is represented in this nation through the good offices of the Dwarf Legation. Agreed after the Koom Valley peace. The Low King has sent a personal envoy to observe and speak for both peoples."

"And Ankh-Morpork, in its wisdom, has accredited a Zulu as having honorary diplomatic status."

The President sat placidly back as outraged murmurs filled the hall.

"A Princess of the Paramount House, it seems. Who is also an Assassin, _and_ a special constable in Sir Samuel Vimes's City Watch."

"Indeed, sir. I understand Sir Samuel's express opinion on the matter is that anyone even _attempting_ to impede one of his officers in the course of her duty will find their feet don't touch, and they'll be shaken down until their eardrums bleed. Whoever and wherever they are. Err…"

There was a silence as the threat sank in.

At length the President asked

"Does the Ankh-Morporkian City Watch have, you know, any _White Howondalandian_ officers in its ranks?"

"Oh, indeed, sir," the Ambassador said, brightly. "I understand to keep a quota and in the interests of ethnic representation, Doctor Smith-Rhodes of the Guild of Assassins also serves as a Special Detective-Constable."

Eyes turned to Charles Smith-Rhodes, who shrugged.

"It's a honourable trade." he said. "And a member of my family who is close to the ear of the Duke of Ankh. I see nothing to object to here."

"Nor do I". the President said, decisively.

"In a diplomatic cantonment established temporarily by Ankh-Morpork for reasons of humanitarian aid and the prosecution of a crime, Ankh-Morpork may invite anyone it bloody well likes. Including Zulus. There may be advantages to having one of them in there. If this girl's a Princess, it's an informal and deniable channel of communication to her father. Hendrik, do stop pulling that face. I've been playing political games since before you were _born._ This way, we can quietly talk to the bastards without having to open embassies in each other's countries. I don't think we're ready for that. Yet. So. If we're all agreed. This is what I think we should do…"

And twenty minutes later after a perfunctory vote, Pieter van der Graaf shook hands with Charles Smith-Rhodes.

"Thenks for becking me up there, Charles."

"Family, Pieter. _Family._ And Lang Hendrik gets right up my nose."

There was a pause.

"Sorry you're not on your way back to Ankh-Morpork. Or indeed to anywhere here you can call home."

Pieter van der Graaf shrugged.

"Effairs of state. They want me to esk young Olga to drop me off et the Trekopje gerrison with sealed orders. You've got a son there, heven't you?"

Charles looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Yes. I do. Look, Pieter, if you see him, tell him I said to do his duty? Not to take any damn silly risks with the life of his men – and certainly not with his own. Say to Julian his mother and I want to see him again soon. Undamaged."

"I shall do thet."

They shook hands. And then a Civil Service junior was calling for Ambassador van der Graaf.

Pieter turned, and went where his duty beckoned.

* * *

><p><strong>5,500 words felt about right for chapter. More will follow. <strong>

**(A)** Saw this one might need a footnote. Not my devising. Originally "two bald men fighting over a comb" was an Argentinian dissident's scathing summation of the Falklands War of 1982. Too good not to use.

**(1)** Do I have any Czech readers? If so…. Apologies. I wanted Irena to be fluent in Slavonic cursing, so I looked up a Czech-English cursing dictionary. Hoping the swear words are sparing and used in context…

**(2) **See my story _**Bad Hair Day.**_ Zlobenian supernatural entities are new to Ankh-Morpork. But still manage to get barred from Biers after provoking a fight with the Watch.

**(3) **See my story _**How André Got His Badge Back,**_ when Sam and Sybil have a short holiday in Lancre and meet the witches….


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